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HOME TIES 

BY 

ARTHUR LEWIS TUBES 



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THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 
PHILADELPHIA 



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HOME TIES 



A Rural Play in Four Acts 



BY 



ARTHUR LEWIS TUBES 

Author of "FARM FOLKS." "THE HEART OF 
A HERO." etc. 




PHILADELPHIA 

THE PENN PUBLISHING COMPANY 

1910 






Copyright 1910 by The Penn Publishing Company 



Horn* T»c_ 

(QCi.D 22274 



Home Ties 



CAST OF CHARACTERS 

Martin Winn With me7?tortes of the past 

Leonard Everett A son of the soil 

Harold Vincent From New York 

JosiAH TizzARD Ati umbrella mender 

Ruth Winn Martinis daughter 

Alma Wayne Her friend, from the city 

Aunt Melissa Martin's sister 

Mrs. Poplin . A widow , with a pension and " symptoms " 
LiNDY Jane . ., Who ^^ helps around'' 



SYNOPSIS 



Act I. — An afternoon in June, between five and six 

o'clock. The home-coming. 
Act II. — One month later. Visitors from the city. 
Act III. — An evening the next week. The party. 
Act IV. — The following January, six months having 

elapsed. The wedding announcement, and "Home, 

Sweet Home." 

The action of the play takes place in the sitting-room of the 
Winn homestead, near a small village in the eastern 
part of New York State. 

Time of Playing : — Two hours and a half. 



COSTUMES AND CHARACTERISTICS 

Martin Winn. A well-to-do "gentleman farmer," of the 
substantial, fairly educated type. By no means should 
he be depicted as of the " Rube " variety. Fifty-five to 
sixty years old, well set, and of a good-natured and 
sympathetic disposition. He should be neatly dressed, 
with the air of a prosperous country gentleman. 

Leonard Everett. A plain but rugged and good-looking 
country young man, of intelligence and fair education. 
Wholesome, manly and likeable. He wears a neat 
but ordinary working suit in first and second acts ; in 
the third, ** dress up " clothes, neat and in good taste; 
fourth act, dark winter suit, with overcoat and cap for 
entrance. 

Harold Vincent. A handsome, cultured young man, 
with the manners of a city bred person. Affable, and 
by no means ** stuck up," but still showing that he has 
a good opinion of himself and feels somewhat above 
his surroundings, though not offensively so. In Act II, 
he wears a white flannel or tennis suit, with straw hat. 
In Act III, a light summer suit. He should be hand- 
somely dressed and well groomed, but is not " dudish." 

JosiAH Tizzard. a little old man, of the quaint humorous 
type, though not too much exaggerated. About sixty 
years old. Thin gray hair, chin whiskers, etc. In 
first two acts he wears a rather dilapidated pair of 
trousers, colored shirt and linen duster, with old straw 
hat, and carries a bundle of old umbrellas. Third act, 
best clothes, neater, but plain and cheap; paper or 
celluloid collar, gay necktie. Fourth act, cheap winter 
suit, with ulster, fur or cloth cap with ear-tabs, large 
tippet and heavy cloth mittens or knitted gloves. 

Ruth Winn. A pretty, attractive country girl with a gloss 
of boarding-school and city manners, though entirely 
without affectation. About eighteen or nineteen years 
of age. For Act I, a well-made traveling dress of 
good material, with hat. Act II, light summer cos- 
tume, with hat. Act III, handsome but not over 
elaborate summer evening gown. Act IV, plain house 
dress of dark material. 



COSTUMES 

Alma Wayne. About Ruth's age, but of a different type. 
She has more of elegance and a mild suggestion of 
aristocratic superiority, though not enough to be offen- 
sive. Of the rather gay, thoughtless coquettish type, 
but not a practiced flirt. In Act II, pretty, delicate 
summer costume or tennis suit, of the best material, 
with dainty hat. Act III, elegant summer evening gown, 
with flowers and possibly a few jewels. Just a bit over- 
dressed in this act, as if to ** show off," but still in 
good taste. 

Aunt Melissa. A lovable, sympathetic maiden lady of 
forty-five or thereabouts. Sweet, refined face, with 
hair plainly combed. She should under no circum- 
stances be depicted as a comic "old maid." Plain 
house dress in first two acts ; in Act III, neat dress of 
light material, with some adornment, but nothing out of 
good taste. Act IV, plain house dress. 

Mrs. Poplin. A quaint comedy character. About sixty 
years of age, peevish, fussy and inquisitive ; talks very 
fast. She is rather healthy in appearance, in spite of 
her constant rehearsals of her varied ailments, which 
plainly are of her own imagining. Act I, calico dress, 
with straw hat somewhat overtrimmed, parasol, etc. 
Act II, about the same. Act III, very gay costume of 
thin material, with ribbons, cheap jewelry, hair frizzed, 
etc. In this act she makes an attempt to play the 
** grand lady," with comical results. Act IV, winter 
dress, with wraps and hood. 

Lindy Jane. Of the "Topsy" variety, twelve to fifteen 
years old, mischievous and full of fun. Acts I and II, 
short calico dress, white stockings, woolly wig. Act 
III, gay dress of cheap material, with short white 
apron, ribbons tied to pigtails. Act IV, similar to Act 
I. May be played '* white " if preferred, by dropping 
the negro dialect. 



PROPERTIES 

Vases and a quantity of roses. Good-sized bottle, tied up 
in white paper. Glass of water. Bundle of old um- 
brellas. Traveling bags, etc. Letter, stamped, sealed 
and addressed. Tennis racquets. Family photograph 
album, with pictures. Small package. Large spoon. 
Newspapers, one loose and another rolled up and ad- 
dressed. Wedding announcement in double envelopes, 
stamped, sealed and addressed. Work-basket. Salt 
and torn paper, for snow. Broom and dust-pan. 



Home Ties 



ACT I 

SCENE. — The sitting-room of a comfortable farmhouse, 
plainly but neatly furnished. There is a window, 
and also door in flat, both open, disclosing a glimpse 
of the yard, with trees, rose-bushes, and the fields be- 
yond. It is between five and six o'clock on an after- 
noon in June. Discover Lindy Jane with a large 
bunch of roses, which she is arranging in vases on 
mantel, or shelf, r. Sofa, L. ; table, with family pho- 
tograph album, etc., r. 

{As curtain rises. Aunt Melissa enters l. ; goes and looks 
out of door in flat, toward Vi., anxiously.') 

Aunt M. They're not in sight yet. Seems so they ought 
to be here by this time. It's after five o'clock, isn't it, 
Lindy Jane ? 

Lindy (without looking round, working with flowers'). 
Yass'm, 's aftah half-pas'. Ain' dem roses jes* scrump- 
tious ? Ah done picked 'n' picked. 

Aunt M. Yes, they're very pretty. But I don't see what 
keeps 'em. {Still looking off r.) 

Lindy. Watah. Ah al'ays gives 'em plenty o' watah. 

Aunt M. No, no ; I mean Martin, and Ruth. Just think, 
she's been gone over eight months — ever since the first 
of last September. Dear me, it seems eight years. I 
don't see 'em yet. 

Lindy. La sakes, Miss Aunt M'lissy, don't worry. Dey's 
a-comin' bime-by. Got t' give *em time t' drive way 
ovah from Harleyville. Mos* five miles. 

Aunt M. Land, Lindy Jane, it isn't more'n three. Be- 
sides, the train gets in at a quarter of five, and 

Oh, here comes Mrs. Poplin. I declare, I don't feel 
like listening to any of her tales of woe. 



HOME TIES 

LiNDY. Wondah what's got hold of 'er now. 'F one thing 
don' ail 'er, it's anothah. 'Tain't never nothin', with 
her. (^Stands back and looks at flowers , which she has 
finished.) Dar, now, dey's all fixed. Guess Miss 
Roof's bound t' notice 'em, ain' she? Guess she'll 
know Ah's glad too 't she gwine come back fr'm dat ar 
board 'em school. 

Aunt M. I'm going in the kitchen and see to that cake. 
You see if you can't get rid of Mrs. PopHn. And when 
you see them coming, you call me. (^Goes L.) 

LiNDY. Yass'm, Ah will. 

(^Exit Aunt M., l.) 

(LiNDY stands admiring flowers y then glances out of door 
or window to l., as she gathers up a few stray rose 
leaves and petals which have fallen about. After a 
slight pause y Mrs. Poplin drags herself in, pausing at 
door. She puts on a plaintive expression and appears 
to be nearly overcome.^ 

Mrs. p. Oh, you there, Lindy Jane ? Do give me a chair, 
please. Pm jest about tuckered out. Seemed so I 
never would git this far, I'm so weak ; but I jest had t' 
go down to the store 'n' git some o' that new medicine. 
(Lindy has placed rocking-chair l. c. ; Mrs. P. goes 
and sinks into it.) I feel sure it's jest what I need. 
Thank you, Lindy Jane. I wonder if you'd get me a 
drink o' water ; I do feel so weak. 

Lindy. Suah 'nough Ah will. Mis' Poplin. What ailin' y' 
now? 

Mrs. p. (half-weepitig). Oh, dear, Lindy Jane, I d' know, 
but it's somethin* terrible, I know it is. I do have 
sech awful spells. I'm afraid it's a tumor. I read an 
advertisement about this medicine {showing good-sized 
bottle, wrapped up, which she carries) and it described 
my sym'toms exactly. I could jest feel 'em, every one, 
as I read what it said. Yes, I'm afraid it's a tumor ; 
I'm almost sure it is. 'N' it'll carry me off, I know it 
will. I can't stand much more. 

Lindy. Land, but yo' don' look so turr'ble awful bad. 
Seems t' me mebbe yo' got th' 'maginin's. 

Mrs. p. The what? I never heard o' them. How do 
they affect you ? 

8 



HOME TIES 

LiNDY. Don* 'feet me nohow. Ah never had 'em. Ah 
mean, Ah reckon mebbe yo' ain't got things — yo' jes* 
'maginin* 'em. 

Mrs. p. Oh, that's it ? Well, I guess I don't, anything of 
the sort. I'm sick, if anybuddy ever was. It's all I 
can do to keep up. I guess when I'm dead and in my 
grave ( Covers face with hand and snivels.') 

LiNDY {chuckling to herself ^ slyly). Lan', Mis' Poplin, Ah 
didn' mean nuffin. Guess Ah'd bettah git yo' dat 
watah. 

{Exit L., grinning.) 

{As soon as alone ^ Mrs. P. visibly brightens up, though still 
retaining her defected look ; glances curiously about y 
then resumes her former attitude as, after a pause, 
LiNDY reenters with a glass of water.) 

Mrs. p. Thanks, Lindy Jane. You'll have your reward in 
heaven. 

{Takes water and drinks two or three S7v allows.) 

Lindy. La, Ah d' want no rewahd. Watah ain' nuffin. 
Feel bettah now ? 

Mrs. p. {handing her the glass). Some, thank you, but I 
do have sech terrible sinking spells. {Resignedly.) 
Some day I'll pass away in one of 'em. But the Lord's 
will be done. [Rocks disconsolately a moment, then 
seems to forget herself.) Expectin' Ruth home t'-day, 
ain't they? 

Lindy. Yass'm. Mr. Winn's done druv over t' Harley- 
ville, whar de train comes in at, t' meet 'er. Mos' 
time dey's yuh, raight now. {Looks out of door to r.) 
'Spect 'm ev' minute. 

Mrs. p. I s'pose Ruth' 11 be too big for her shoes when she 
gets back, bein' t' boardin' -school 'n' learnin' all them 
fancy branches they tell about. Been visitin' in New 
York, too, I hear. 

Lindy. She won't be no diff'unt, 's mah 'pinion. Ain't 
no stuck-up-ness 'bout Miss Roof, 's Ah ev' see. 

Mrs. p. Wal, of course, I ain't sayin' they is, but it 
don't take much t' spile young folks now-days, once 
they git notions. Time was when Ruth Winn was like 

9 



HOME TIES 

any country gal, 'n' was glad enough t* let Len Everett 

take her 'round, till folks thought they was go'n' t' 

make a match of it. But I guess she's lookin' higher, 

sence she's been t' New York and met a lot o' them, 

doods. 
LiNDY. Huh ! Doods. What's them ? 
Mrs. p. Dressed-up scarecrows, I call 'em, with store 

clothes on, 'n' smokin' cigarettes. Ever seen one ? 
LiNDY. Yass'm. Come from the city, don't they, 'n' 

board ? 
Mrs. p. That's them. In the summer time. 
LiNDY. Yass'm. But Ah don't cal'late Miss Roof's gwine 

have nuffin t' do with none o' dem. (^Enter Aunt 

M., L.) Does yo'. Miss Aunt M'lissy? 
Aunt M. What's that ? Oh, good-afternoon, Mis' Poplin. 
Mrs. p. Good -afternoon, Miss Winn. I jest stopped in 

on m' way home from the drug store after some new 

medicine. 
Aunt M. What's your affliction jest now ? 
LiNDY. Doods ! 
Aunt M. Land, what you talkin' about? I guess Mis* 

Poplin ain't takin' medicine f'r dudes. 
Lindy. No, 'm. Dem's what she say Miss Roof's been 

whar dey is, 'n' laks 'em. 
Mrs. p. I didn't say no sech thing. Don't you pay no 

'tention t' her. Miss Winn. What I said was 

Aunt M. Lindy, you go 'n the kitchen and wash up those 

cake tins, and if you see them comin' you let me know. 
Lindy {mischievously ^ going l.). See the cake tins comin' ? 
Aunt M. No, of course not, you silly thing. Martin and 

Ruth. They ought to have been here long ago. 
Lindy {i^., giggling). He! he! Doods! 
Mrs. p. {rising). Wal, I must be gett'n' along. I had t' 

stop 'n' rest a few minutes, I'm that weak. That last 

medicine didn't do me a bit o' good. 
Aunt M. Let me see, that was for — what was it you had 

last week ? 
Mrs. p. Wal, I thought it was liver complaint, but it seems 

it wasn't. I was sure I had the symptoms it told about 

on the wrapper, but you never can tell. No, it was 

worse'n that. I've got a tumor. {Sinks into chair.) 
Aunt M. You don't say ! When did that come on you ? 
Mrs. p. Oh, I s'pose that's what's been ailin' me all along, 

lo 



H03IE TIES 

only I didn't know it. Mebbe I'd never 'a' really 
known, only I happened t' read an advertisement about 
this medicine {holding up bottle) and it jest described 
my sym'toms. I'm afraid I ain't long for this world. 
{Resignedly i with a deep sigh.') Wal, I hope they's 
peace in the next. 

Aunt M. 1 wouldn't give up yet a while. There's a lot a 
things you haven't had yet. 

Mrs. p. Oh, Miss Winn, don't make fun of me. It ain't 
no jokin' matter. I suffer somethin' terrible, 'n' you 
can't imagine how much it costs for medicine. This 
cost ninety-six cents. (Aunt M. has gone to door, is 
looking anxiously off to r.) So you're expectin' Ruth 
home, are y' ? 

Aunt M. Yes ; Martin drove over to Harley ville to meet 
her, and I'm expecting *em every minute. Just think, 
she's been gone the best part of a year. 

Mrs. p. Yes; I hear she's been visitin' in New York 'n' 
goin' to operys 'n' things. I s'pose she'll be terrible 
hifalutin when she gets back, 'n' won't hardly speak t' 
common folks. 

Aunt M. {turning to her). How can you talk that way, 
Mrs. Poplin? You know Ruth isn't that kind, and 
you've no call t' say such things. Ruth Winn' 11 never 
snub her old friends, no matter what comes to her. I 
hope she's been better brought up than that. 

Mrs. p. Land, I hope you ain't mad. Miss Winn, I 
didn't mean nothin'. Of course, I know you've been 
a mother to her, and an own mother couldn't 'a' done 
no better. I was jest a-thinkin', what with board'n'- 
school, 'n' New York s'ciety, 'n' all that 

Aunt M. You needn't have worried. I've had her ever 
since her mother died, when she wasn't a year old, and 
she don't know any difference. 

Mrs. p. Her mother died away, didn't she ? New York, 
wa'n't it? (Aunt M. turns again to the door ; doesn't 
answer.) Wal, I ain't tryin' t' pry int' things — that 
ain't me; but I never could understand why you al'ays 
made sech a mystery about it, if they wa'n't nothin' y' 
want t' hide. Everybuddy knew your brother went 
away from home 'n* got married, 'n' never was seen 
here agin till he come home a year or so after, sayin' 
his wife was dead 'n' bringin* the baby f 'r you t' bring 
II 



HOME TIES 



up. You never explained anything more, so of course 
— wal, folks kind o' wondered. {Partly rises.) Wal, 
I guess I'd better be goin'. I s'pose you'd ruther not 
have anybuddy here when Ruth comes. (Sinks back 
into chair, ) Oh, dear, dear me ! I do feel that weak, 
I d' know's you'll be bothered with me much longer, 
Miss Winn. I may never be able t' git this fur from 
home agin, till I'm carried to m' grave. 

Aunt M. I guess I wouldn't talk that way. You've lived 
through a good many things, 'n' I guess you'll live 
through a good many more. {Looks off to l.) Here 
comes a friend of yours — an admirer, I might say. 

Mrs. p. Who is it ? 

Aunt M. Mr. Tizzard. 

Mrs. p. Josiah Tizzard ? F'r the land sake, seems so I 
can't get anywhere I don't meet that man. He tags 
me around somethin' scandalous. 

Aunt M. Does he? I s'pose the best way to get rid of 
him would be to marry him and done with it. 

Mrs. p. Miss Winn — how you talk ! I don't flatter m'self 
it's me he's after. He didn't seem quite s' anxious till 
the gov'ment give me that pension of twenty-four dol- 
lars a month, 'n' six hunderd back. 

Aunt M. Well, you know rich widows like you ain't so 
plenty, and besides, I don't know but that Josiah's 
quite a match. 

Mrs. p. What — him ? Nothin' but an umbrella mender ? 
Huh! 

Aunt M. Seems to me, between your money and his um- 
brellas, you'd be sure to have something laid by for a 
rainy day. 

(Aunt M. has crossed down to l. c; Mrs. P. does not re- 
ply^ but gives a sniff of disdain. All of a sudden 
Josiah Tizzard pokes his head in door or window.^ 

Josiah. Umbrellas t' mend ? 

Aunt M. No, Mr. Tizzard, not t'-day. But won't you 

come in ? 
Josiah. No, thanks — can't. Got t' jog along. {Sees 

Mrs. p. for the first time.) Wal — I d' know, mebbe 

I will. 
Mrs. p. {grunting scornfully). H'm ! — the idee. 

12 



HOME TIES 

Aunt M. Yes, do. (JPlaces a chair r. c.) 

{Enter Josiah, d. f., frojn l., pausing up c.) 

JosiAH {as Aunt M. motions to chair'). Thanks, guess I 
will. {To Mrs. P.) How d' do, Mari' ? (Mrs. P. 
glares at him savagely^ then turns her head away.) 
How y' feelin' ? 

Aunt M. She says she isn't very well. She's got "symp- 
toms." 

Josiah. That so, Mari' ? What kind ? I was readin' 
'bout some new ones; was comin' over. Thought you 
might like t' try 'em. 

Mrs. p. {rising). You c'n set there makin' fun of me, 'f 
you want t', but it won't do you no good. I sh'd think 
anybuddy 's bad off as I be deserved pity, 'nstid o' 
bein' made fun of. You needn't bother y'rself about 
comin' t' see me, Josiah Tizzard, n'r callin' me by m* 
first name, nether. That's reserved f 'r them closer t' 
me 'n you be. {Up c.) 

Josiah {risings going toward her). I'll git closer, 'f y* 
say so. 

Mrs. p. {drawing away). I guess you needn't. When I 
want y', I'll ask y'. 

Josiah. 'S that so? Wal, now, I thought the men was 
'xpected t' do the pr'posin'. But anyway, so't'sdone. 

(Aunt M. is up c, looking off ; Mrs. P. and ]osiab, l. c. 
At this point, Aunt M. becomes excited.) 

Aunt M. Here they come! They're comin'! {Calls 
off L.) Lindy — Lindy Jane, here they come ! 

(Aunt M. rushes off to R.; Lindy runs in l. and follows 
her, without looking at Mrs. P. or Josiah.) 

Josiah. What is it? Who's come? 

Mrs. p. Land, sech a fuss, you might think it was the 

queen. It's Ruth Winn, back fr'm board'n' -school, 'n' 

visitin' in New York. 

{^They go up and look off ; she stands in door, Josiah is 
close to her and lets his arm gradually steal about her 
waist. She does not appear to notice.) 

Josiah. Oh ! Ruth, is it ? Home again ? 

13 



H03IE TIES 

Mrs. p. Yes. There she is — see her ? — wavin' her hand. 

Land, look at that hat. 
JosiAH. Stylish lookin', ain't she? 
Mrs. p. Huh ! Fussed up, I call it. Don't look much 

like a farmer's daughter. {Notices his arniy gets away 

from hifn.) Josiah Tizzard, what you doin' ? How 

dast you ? 
Josiah. Thought I'd embrace the opp'rtunity. 
Mrs. P. Oh, I'm an opp'rtunity, be I? 'N' you don't 

b'lieve in wastin' any, do y' ? 
Josiah. Waistin' one then, wasn't I? (Chuckles.) Eh? 
Mrs. p. Oh, — h'm ! — think you're smart, don't y' ? 

{Looks off.') Now, f'r goodness sake, b'have y'self, 

'f y' know how. Here they come. I s'pose she'll be 

's stuck-up 's ever was. 
Josiah. Think so? Oh, I d' know. Never seemed t' me 

Ruth Winn was that kind o* gal. 

(Again sidling up to her.) 

Mrs. p. Wal, y' never can tell. {Notices him and gives 
him a push.) Josiah Tizzard, you behave y'rself. 
Ain't you got no sense? 

{He tuffibles over, against chair or table. She disdains 
him, going to c. d. There is a sound of greetings, 
laughter, etc., offR. After a slight pause Ruth Winn 
ejiters c. d. from r., ivith Aunt M., who has an arm 
about her. They are animated. Lindy follows, with 
hand-bag, uinbrella, etc.) 

Ruth. Home again — oh^ to think of it, I'm home again — 
where you are. Auntie, dear, and with father — yes, 
and you too, Lindy Jane. I'm so glad to see you all, 
I don't know how to act. {Sees Mrs. P.) Oh, and 
there's Mrs. Poplin, too ! {Goes and shakes hands 
with Mrs. P., cordially.) How are you, Mrs. Poplin? 
Well, I hope? And Mr. Tizzard ! 

{Shakes hands with him.) 

Mrs. p. No, Ruth, I don't think it'll ever fall to my lot t' 

be well agin. I'm very poorly 

Ruth. I'm so sorry. I remember when I went away you 

thought you had — m'm — let me see — was it pleurisy? 

14 



HOME Tins 

Mrs. p. I don't quite remember, but I think I did have 

the sym'toms 

Aunt M. Mis' Poplin always has symptoms, Ruth. My, 

but you're looking well. 
Ruth. Of course I am. And now that I am back in this 

pure country air — why, I shall eat you out of house 

and home. You'd better replenish the larder, Lindy 

Jane. 
Lindy Cl.). Yass'm, Missy Roof, we's got plenty o' lard. 
Ruth (who is looking about, now goes up and sees the 

roses y smelling theni). Oh, what a lot of beautiful 

roses — giving me such a sweet welcome. Auntie, dear, 

did you fix them ? 
Aunt M. No, it was Lindy Jane. 
Ruth. Lindy, you're a dear. They are just beautiful, 

and so prettily arranged. 
Lindy {immefisely pleased). La, Missy, do y' t'ink so? 

He ! he ! (Exit l., chuckling gleefully.') 

(Mrs. p. has reseated herself l. c. Aunt M. is r.; Ruth 
looking at roses.) 

Mrs. p. I s'pose you've been havin' a grand time, what 
with your learnin' s' much, 'n' goin' to all them op'rys 
and things ? I heard you was visitin' in New York. 

RtJTH {still up stage). Oh, yes; I was there nearly three 
weeks, and had the best time. But I'm glad to get 
home, for all that. *' I love the dear old farm," as the 
song says. 

JosiAH. Met lots of fine folks, I dare say. Probably got a 
new beau. 

Ruth. Oh, Mr. Tizzard ! 

Aunt M. I guess she's been too busy to think about beaux, 
and got too much sense. 

(Ruth, showing some confusion, turns to R. Mrs. P. has 
again risen and gone to c. J osiau follows her.) 

Mrs. p. Land, Josiah Tizzard, seems t' me your mind 
don't run t' nothin' but love makin'. (Ife makes a 
motion to take her arm ; she jerks away from him.) 
B'have y'rself. Wal, I really must be goin'. I didn't 
mean t' stay s* long, only I felt that weak I had t' have 
a rest. (Goes up, followed by Josiah.) Good-bye, 

15 



HOME TIES 

Ruth. I hope you'll come over 'n' see me — soon — 
'cause if y' wait very long I may not be there. 

Ruth {turning to her). Why, Mrs. Poplin, are you going 
away? 

Mrs. p. Wal, they's no tellin'. {DoUfully.) I may take 
a long journey. 

Aunt M. Where you think you're goin' ? 

Mrs. p. {folding her hands and rolling up her eyes, sol- 
emnly'). I hope I've lived so it'll be to a better land, 
where they ain't no sorrow 'r sickness. 

JosiAH. Not even sym'toms? 

(Mrs. p. gives him a withering look ; Aunt M. smiles to 
her self y turning away ; Ruth pretends to take it all 
seriously.) 

Ruth. Why, Mrs. Poplin, I hope it isn't as bad as that? 

Mrs. p. Wal, y' never can tell, but my sym'toms are ter- 
rible bad. {Going.) Good-day, Miss Winn. You 
come over too, when y' git time. 

Aunt M. Thanks, Mis' Poplin, I will. 

JosiAH {having taken his hat and ufnbrellas, sticks close to 
Mrs. p.). I'm a-goin' right your way, Mari'. 

Mrs. p. {drawing back, looking at him with disdain over 
her shoulder, as she goes to d. f.). Oh, you be? Wal, 
y' needn't put y'rself out. H'm ! 

{She tosses her head, marches off to r., ignoring him. He 
follows, looking back with a sly wink at Aunt M., 
jerkifig his head sideways toward Mrs. P., as he fol- 
lows her. Ruth goes up and looks after them, laugh- 
ing; Aunt M. is l. c.) 

Ruth. Aren't they funny? Do you think she will ever 
have him ? 

Aunt M. Wouldn't be surprised. I take it he's one of 
the " symptoms " that she can't get rid of. 

Ruth {coming down). Poor Mrs. Poplin, with her " symp- 
toms." 

Aunt M. Well, I'm glad they're gone. Now maybe we 
can get a chance to talk a little ourselves. Come and 
sit down, Ruthie dear, and let me have a good look at 
you. {She sits on sofa, Ruth beside her J) Yes, you 
are my own little girl still {looking in her face search- 
i6 



HOME TIES 

tng/y), the same — and yet, seems to me — isn't there 
something in your eyes that wasn't there before? I 
don't know just what — only 

Ruth {laughing^ a bit uneasily). Why, Aunt Melissa, 
what do you mean ? I don't see how they could be any 
different — only happier, perhaps, after such a winter, 
and — ^getting home again — and 

Aunt M. M'm — no, it isn't only that. Ruthie, dear, 
haven't I been the same as a mother to you ? 

Ruth. Why, of course you have, you dear, sweet soul ; no 
girl ever had a better mother than you have been to me. 

Aunt M. Then tell me all a girl would tell her mother. 
Don't you think you ought to do that ? 

Ruth. Of course, and I — I always have, and — will — only, 
I just got here, and there has not been much oppor- 
tunity, you know. I have so much to tell that I don't 
know where to begin. 

Aunt M. {risings going to mantel aiid getting letter). 
This came for you, dear, to-day. 

Ruth {taking letter^ with a sudden flash of joy ^ which she 
cannot conceal). Oh! Thank you. 

Aunt M. You never used to get such letters, Ruthie — in 
a man's handwriting, too. And from New York. 

Ruth {looking at letter). N-no, of course not; I hadn't 

been away, then, and made new friends, and 

{Suddenly very serious, goes to Aunt yi.^ putting her 
arms about her.) Auntie, you don't think I have done 
anything wrong, do you — or that I could ? 

Aunt M. No, of course I don't, but I don't want you t' 
get too high notions, dear, and so wrapped up in city 
folks and their ways that you can't be contented here 
any more. If you do, I'll be sorry we ever let you go 
away and have what they call "advantages." But 
there, we won't talk about it now. You just got home, 
and, as Mis' Poplin says, *' don't hail trouble when we 
see it going by and ask it to stop in." {Goes up c.) 

Ruth {putting letter back in envelope). But you frighten 
me. Trouble — as if I — oh. Auntie, tell me — do you 
really think I could change like that, or ? 

Aunt M. Goodness me, no; I'm so excited, with your 
coming back, and all, that I don't know what I say. 
{Looks off.) Here comes your father. I must go out 
and see if Lindy Jane hasn't most got supper ready. 

17 



HOME TIES 

(Aunt M. goes l. Ruth goes to d. f., meets Martin 
Winn, who enters from r.) 

Martin {taking Ruth in his arms). Here we are — my 
little girl and I, home again, and I feel — I feel as if I 
could never let her go away again, now I've got her 
back. 

Ruth. Now, you dear old daddy, don't you begin to think 
about anything like that. Why, I've just got home, 
and — and I'm not going away again for a long, long time. 

{She drops the letter. Martin picks it up.) 

Martin {glancing at letter). My, getting letters already — 
from New York, too. Who's it from? 

Ruth. Why, from — a friend of mine. 

Martin. In New York ? 

Ruth. Yes. 

Martin. Thought you just left there ? Seems so they're 
mighty quick about writing to you. Didn't waste any 
time. Found it waiting here, didn't you? 

Ruth. Why, yes, father, he {Pauses, confused.) 

Martin. Oh, it's a *' he " ! Who is it ? 

Ruth. Mr. Vincent, father. I'm sure you'd like him. 

Martin. How long have you known him ? 

Ruth. Why, I met him first last December when I went 
home with Alma Wayne for the Christmas holidays. 
She's my roommate, you know, and she knows him. 
He's a gentleman, father — and so handsome, and pol- 
ished. I am sure you will like him. 

Martin. Oh, I will? Then I'm likely to see him? 

Ruth. Some time, perhaps. Oh, father, he is so hand- 
some, and so refined, and — I — I 

Martin. Look here, little one, do you mean you're in 
love? 

Ruth. Oh, father ! 

Martin. This is no time to hide things, little girl. The 
world is big, and there's all sorts o' people in it. 
You've been out into it; not far, nor to see much, — 
but I take it two weeks in New York is equal to a life- 
time in a place like this, when it comes to finding out 
what the world's like, and what kind of folks there is 
i8 



H03IE TIES 

in it. I'm afraid — I'm afraid my little girl has begun 
to find out. 

Ruth. Why, father, how you talk ! I'm sure it was a 
great advantage to spend two or three weeks in New 
York, to see and hear so much, and to meet such peo- 
ple. Alma Wayne's father is rich, and they have ele- 
gant friends. 

Martin. Elegant friends are not always the best nor the 
safest for a little girl from the country to know. ( Takes 
hold of her shoulders gently, and turns her to him, look- 
ing into her face.') Ruth, tell me — tell your old daddy 
— did that man make love to you ? {She drops her 
eyes, blushing.) And you let him — you told him 

{Pauses, hut looks straight at her, lifting her face to his, 
and waiting for an answer.) 

Ruth. Yes — yes, I told him I love him, for I do — I do ! 
Oh, father, how could I help it ? He is so grand, so 
noble. I know he is, father, I know it, and — he — he is 
coming here soon — to see me — to see you, and 

{Buries her face against his arm, weeping.) 

Martin. There, there, little one, don't let's feel this way 
about it. I'm sorry, because I — I know — I know what 
comes from things like this, and I hadn't ought to let 
you go away, but I wanted you to be educated and I 
hoped — oh, well, we won't worry. I'll see him, and 
maybe — maybe — it'll come out all right. 

Ruth {looking up, hopefully). Yes, yes, father, it will ; I 
know it will. When you see him, and know him, I am 
sure you will have no more fear. 

Martin. All right. Now you run along and get fixed up 
a little for supper, because it's 'most ready, and — I 
'most f'rgot, there's somebuddy out there waiting to 
see you. 

Ruth {she has started r., now pauses, turning). To see 
me ? Who ? 

Martin. Why, an old friend of yours — Len Everett. 

Ruth. Leonard Everett — oh, yes — Len. {Goes up to c.) 
Is he out there — waiting all this time? Why didn't 
you bring him in ? 

Martin. He wouldn't come. Bashful, I guess. Said for 

19 



HOME TIES 

me to find out, and I'm blessed if I didn't forget. Bet 

he's chafing Hke an old horse in fly time. 
Ruth. Well, 1 don't wonder. You call him in, while I go 

and tidy up, and tell him I'll be right down. I shall 

be very glad to see Len again, (r.) 
Martin {looking out c, the?i at her, speaking Just as she is 

about to exit r.). Ruth. 
Ruth (turnings in door). Yes, father. 
Martin. What — about — him ? 
Ruth. About — him ? Leonard Everett ? 
Martin. Yes — Leonard Everett. Do you think it'll be 

treating him just right ? You know, before you went 

away — well, it was sort of understood 

Ruth {coming part way back to c). I — I know. But 

there was nothing definite — nothing ever said that 

should make him think he had a claim on me. 
Martin. He thinks he has. He's built a new house — he's 

planned, and thought — I'm afraid it's going to go pretty 

hard with Len. 
Ruth. Oh, I'm so sorry. I like him — I — but I couldn't 

have Len ; I don't love him, not that way, and I never 

told him so. He has no right to think I am treating 

him badly. 

{She exits hurriedly y r. Martin looks after her, shaking 
his head sadly ; goes and looks off to r., beckoning with 
his hand, Just as Aunt M. enters l.) 

Aunt M. Land sakes, Martin, are you never coming to 
supper? It's been ready for ten or fifteen minutes. 
Where's Ruth ? 

Martin {without looking around). Gone to tidy up a 
bit. {Motions off.) 

Aunt M. Who you motioning to ? 

Martin. Len Everett. He's waiting to come in. But she 
says she don't want to see him. Melissy, we made a 
mistake. It's all happened, just as we might have 
known it would. It's got into her brain, just as it did 
her mother's. 

Aunt M. Oh, Martin ! No ! 

Martin. Yes, it has. She's seen it — the city — the great, 
gay city, with its lights and its consuming fires. There 
it is — waiting — calling — ready to dazzle their eyes and 
turn their brains, and lure them on to destruction. It 



HOME TIES 

wants our sons, our daughters, our little ones — to de- 
vour — the way a wolf wants a lamb to devour it ! 

Aunt M. Oh, Martin — don't talk that way — don't ! It 
hasn't got our Ruth. She's safe. We've got her back 
here with us, now, and we'll keep her. She's safe 
here — with us — Martin. We'll keep her, we won't let 
her go away again, and she'll forget. She'll forget, 
Martin, in a little while. 

Martin. Her mother didn't forget. They won't let her. 
They'll come here and take her away. He's coming — 
she said so. Oh, why didn't I keep her here, and not 
let her go away ? I might have known — I might have 
known ! 

(He sinks into chair by tahky sadly. Leonard Everett 
appears in c. d.) 

Aunt M. Here's Len, Martin — Leonard Everett. Come 

in, Len. 
Len. {coming part way down c). Thanks, Miss Winn. I 

saw you wave to me, Mr. Winn, so I came along. I — 

I thought Ruth was here. {Looks around.') 
Martin {without turning, his chin resting 07i hand, arm 

on table). She was, a minute ago. She went up-stairs. 
Aunt M. Set down, Len. She'll be right down, I guess. 

We're just going to have supper, and I want you to 

stay and eat with us. (l.) 
Len. Oh, no, thank you. Miss Winn; I'll come over 

again. I just wanted to see Ruth a few minutes, and 

welcome her home. I won't stay this time. 
lAisDY {putting head if I h.). Suppah's ready. {Disappears.) 
Aunt M. Pshaw ! I guess you will. I'm going to put on 

another plate. 

{Exit, L.) 

Martin (rising). Sit down, Len. You might's well stay. 

Len. Well, you see, I'm afraid it would seem like intrud- 
ing. I don't think you want strangers when you have 
a family reunion. 

Martin. I guess you're not a stranger, Len — here. 

Len. No, of course not — that way. But — well, what about 
Ruth? Do you think she'd want me? You sec, Mr. 
Winn, I've got a kind of a — well, a queer feeling — as 

21 



HOME TIES 

if maybe Ruth won't feel toward me the same as she 
used to. She only wrote to me two or three times all 
last winter, and the last letter, soon after Christmas, 
wasn't just the kind a fellow expects from the girl he — 
to tell the truth, I've felt ever since as if I was going to 
lose the one thing in all this world I want most. Am 
I, Mr. Winn — am I ? 

Martin. That's for you to find out, Len. What you want 
most in all the world is worth fighting for, seems to me, 
and as long's there's a fighting chance, I wouldn't give 
her up, boy. 

Len. Then you think ( Takes his hat from chair, 

goes up.) I see. You don't need to tell me. She's 
met somebody else. Well, what else could I expect ? 
It was only natural. (In c. d., not noticing Ruth, 
who appears r., and stands looking at hitn.') Tell her 

I was asking for her, that I (^Sees Ruth.) Oh ! 

I {Turns y about to go out. ) 

Ruth {entering, going up to c). Len — why, Len — aren't 
you going to speak to me ? (He pauses, turns, looking 
at her. She holds out her hand.) Aren't you glad to 
see me ? 

Len. Why, of course I am. {Takes her hand, shakes it 
warmly.) Glad ? I should say so. It's like seeing the 

sun come out again, after days of darkness. Ruth 

{He forgets himself, bends toivard her. She draws 
away from him, kindly, but in a way that he under- 
stands. He straightens up.) Oh, excuse me, 1 — I 
must be going now. 

Martin. You'd better stay to supper, Len. 

Ruth. Why, yes, Len, of course — stay. 

Len. I — I don't think I can, very well, I 

(Martin quietly exits, l.) 

Ruth. Wouldn't you stay to please me ? 

Len. If I thought it would — yes, of course. Do you really 

want me to? 
Ruth. Why, of course I do. We are old friends, Len, 

and I'm very glad to see you again. I've been gone a 

long time. 
Len. a long time? It's been ages to me. I've counted 

the weeks, the days, almost the minutes, till it was time 

22 



HOME TIES 

for you to come home, and now — well, it isn't much as 
I expected it was going to be. 

Ruth. I don't know what you expected, Len, but if — if it 
was more than — than the best of friendship, I'm — I'm 
sorry — but you had no right to expect more than that. 

Len. No right, Ruth ? You tell me that, after all the 
years I've thought something else, and you've let me? 
Why, ever since I was a little boy, and you was a tiny 
bit of a girl, I've thought of you, and never of any other 
girl. It was always you, when we walked to school 
together and I carried your books and your dinner pail ; 
it was you when we began to go to parties, and you 
always let me take you home — or from church — and 
seemed glad to have me. Didn't I talk about the time 
you would be my wife, and 

Ruth. Len — no ! — it never came to that 



Len. And when I began to earn money, and save all I 
could, it was for you. Then I grew up, and got along, 
and saved more, and got enough to build a house — a 
home — and last fall as soon as you went away, I began 
to build it, to surprise you, and now it's done, and — 
and you — oh, Ruth, you don't mean it ! You don't 
mean that you won't have me — that you have found 
somebody else away off there where you have been — 
in the city — that you don't love me — and won't 

(^He pauses, looking at her pleadi7igly ; she stands with 
drooping head. There is a slight pause, as he waits 
for an answer, thefi holds out his arms, as if about 
to take her into them. She draws away, gently, but 
mea?tingly, looking up at him, with a sad, wistful 
face.') 

Ruth. Oh, Len, I am so sorry if — if you have misunder- 
stood — if you think I ever meant anything more than 
friendship. I like you — I always have, and always 
will, as one of the best friends I ever had — as a brother 
— but — oh, Len, I'm sorry you feel so about it, but it 
can't — it can't be — anything more. 

Len. You mean, Ruth ? You mean 

Ruth. Yes, Len. 

{She bows her head, he looks at her a moment, as if scarcely 

23 



HOME TIES 

comprehending the truth of her words y then, with an 
expression^ 7iot of anger ^ but of sadness and resigna- 
iionj turns and goes slowly off to L., without looking 
back. Ruth starts, as if to call him back, but pauses, 
and after looking after him, in a dejected manner, 
brightens, takes letter fro?n her pocket, opefts it, reads 
a moment, flushed with happiness, then, rapturously 
kissing the signature, goes slowly toward L., as the 
curtain falls.) 



CURTAIN 



24 



ACT II 

SCENE. — Same as Act /, the middle of an afternoon one 
month later. Alma Wayne, wearing a handsome 
stwtmer costume^ with haty is discovered seated on the 
arm of a chair y L. c, smilingly regarding Harold 
Vincent, whoy in a jaunty tennis or outing suit, with 
straw hat in one hand and tennis racquet in the other y 
stands c. 

Alma. Yes, I certainly am puzzled this time, Harold Vin- 
cent. As a rule, I can read you like an open book, 
but I must admit I don't see why you are hanging 
around here. What's your little game this time? 

Harold. Game? I don't know what you mean. There's 
no ''game " about it. Aren't you here? I might ask 
what your game is. 

Alma. Why, I'm here visiting Ruth Winn. She asked 
me to come for a couple of weeks or so, and I thought 
I'd see what real '* rural felicity " is like. And lo and 
behold, when I arrive, here you are, Johnny-on-the- 
spot. If I didn't know better, and you hadn't arrived 
first, I might think you were following me. As it is, 
well, there's but one conclusion — it's the little country 
maid. Have I struck it? 

Harold. Of course you have, and you know it. You 
knew last winter, at your house, that I was in love with 
her. I told you so. 

Alma. Oh, fudge! I've seen you "in love," as you call 
it, with too many. It was I, once. You have the 
most elastic heart I ever saw. 

Harold {throwing hat on table or chair'). See here. Alma, 
I don't want you to interfere. If you go and spoil it, 
I'll never forgive you. I know, I've had fancies for 
plenty of girls, gay city flirts who were no more serious 
than I was, but Ruth Winn isn't that kind. She has 
made me realize what real love is. I think I have a 
chance, and I mean to win 

Alma. Win Winn ? 

25 



E03IE TIES 

Harold {takifig his haty and starting to go out c). You 
may joke all you please, but I'm in earnest. 

Alma. All right. Then I'll help you — or at least, I won't 
hinder you, if you mean the right thing. But your past 
record with girls is none too much in your favor, and 
when it comes to a sweet, innocent, unsuspecting young 
thing like Ruth Winn — well, none of your chorus girl 
tactics with her, that's all. 

Harold {laughing lightly'). I don't know as you are just 
the one to set yourself up as a model of constancy. 
I've known you to flirt, and — what about that stalwart 
village swain, Mr. Everett? I've seen you casting a 
few alluring smiles in his direction, the last day or so. 

Alma. Poor fellow, he needs them. And while you're 
talking about him, let me tell you something. If you 
aren't mighty careful, you'll have him to reckon with. 

Harold. Oh, — him ! 

Alma. Yes — him ! Be careful, that's all, and remember — 
<< a word to the wise " 

{He is in d. f., she l. c. Enter Lindy, l.) 

Lindy. Oh, 'scuse me. {Regarding Alma with great ad- 
miration.) Ah was look'n' fo' Miss Aunt M'lissy, 'n* 
didn' know yo'-all was yuh. 

Alma. I think she went to the village. ( With mock po- 
liteness.) This is Mr. Vincent, Miss Lindy Jane. 

Harold {smiling condescendingly). How do you do. Miss 
Lindy Jane ? Glad to meet you. 

Lindy. Is y' ? Thanks. {To Alma.) Reckon 'e's one 
o' dem what dey calls '^doods," ain't 'e? 

Alma {laughing). I reckon he is. Eh, Harold ? 

(Harold is at first inclined to show anger , hut smiles^ then 
laughs good-?iaturedly and goes out to L. Lindy goes 
tip and looks after him, admiringly.) 

Lindy. Yass'm, he sutt'n'ly am scrumptious-lookin'. 

Don't wondah Miss Roof laks 'im. 
Alma. Do you think she does, Lindy Jane? 
LiNDV. T'ink? Ah knows it. She's all et up wiv um. 

Jcb' can't t'ink o* nuftin 'r nobuddy else. Don* won- 
26 



HOME TIES 

dah. Yo' 'n' him sutt'nly do look lak yo' was raight 

out o' one o' dem fashion books. 
Alma. Oh, Lindy ! 
LiNDY {looking her over). Wal, yo* does, suah 'nough. 

Jes' look at dem fixin's. Ah could stan' yuh 'n' nevah 

take mah eyes off yo' fo* a week. 
Alma. Thank you, Lindy, but I'm afraid that would hardly 

do. Miss Winn might send me home as a nuisance, 

if I interfered with your duties in that way. (^Glances 

off c.) There's somebody at the door, Lindy. 
Lindy {looking). Yass'm, dat's Mis' Poplin. Reckon 

she's got some mo' sym't'ms t' tell about. 

{Goes to D. F. and admits Mrs. P., who, as she sees 
Alma, at first brightens up with curiosity and admira- 
tion, then puts on a doleful look and sinks into the 
chair f r. c, which Lindy offers her.) 

Alma. Good-afternoon, Mrs. Poplin. How are you feel- 
ing to-day ? 

Mrs. p. Very poorly, thank you, miss. {Puts hand on 
left side.) I've got sech a pain here. I'm afeared it's 
go'n' t' turn out t' be appendiceetus. I'm sure I've 
got the sym'toms. 

Alma. Oh, I hope not. I hardly think it's that, for ap- 
pendicitis comes on the right side. 

Mrs. p. {a bit nonplussed, but not to be caught, changing 
hands to other side). M'm — yes, of course, I know it 
does. It extends over. I felt it first on the left, 'n' 
now it's gone over to the right. Oh, I'm sure it's the 
sym'toms. I read 'em all up. 

Lindy. Ah bet it is. Mis' Poplin she knows 'em all — dem 
sym't'ms. 

Alma. It doesn't seem to me you ought to be ouf, if you 
are coming down with appendicitis. It's very serious, 
you know, and you may have to have an operation. 

Mrs. p. Oh, good land, don't say that ; it would surely 
be the end of me. I d' know, though, but it would be 
jest 's well. Ain't much good o' livin' al'ays sick, 's 
I be, 'n' I guess it's jest 's well t' go sudd'n. {Rises 
feebly.) Where's Miss Winn, Lindy? I come overt' 
see 'f I could borrow her hot water bottle. 

Lindy. She's went to de sto', but Ah guess she be back 

27 



HOME TIES 

soon. Yo' come out 'n d' kitchen 'n' Ah'll see 'f Ah 
can't find it. (^Goes l.) 

Mrs. p. (^following slowly). Thanks, Lindy Jane, I will. 
(^Exit Lindy, l. Mrs. P. pauses l., turns and looks 
at Alma, who has gone up to d. f.) Visitin' Ruth, 
ain't y' ? 

Alma. Yes. 

Mrs. p. I heard she had stylish friends in the city. You're 
the one she staid with in New York, ain't y' ? 

Alma. Yes, she visited me a week at Christmas time, and 
again in May, after we left school. I am very fond of 
Ruth. She's a lovely girl. 

Mrs. p. I guess you ain't the only one 't thinks so. That 
Mr. Vincent seems t' be shinin' up to her consid'able. 
Poor Len Everett's had t* take a back seat. I never 
say much about other folks' affairs — it ain't me — but I 
can't help sayin' this much, that I don't think Ruth 
Winn's treat'n' Len Everett exactly right, shakin' him 
f r that city feller what's puttin' on sech style, boardin' 
at the hotel 'n' all — after they'd be'n as good 's en- 
gaged f'r years — 'r at least lett'n* folks around here take 
it f'r granted they would be. But that comes fr'm 
goin' to the city 'n' seein' style, 'n' gitt'n' notions. 
Of course, it ain't none o' my business, 'n' it ain't me 
t' interfere, but I should think, after the way her 
mother 

Alma. Ruth's mother? 

Mrs. p. Yes. They say she was a city girl — 't any rate, 
he went away 'n' married her, 'n' nobuddy around here 
knows who she was, 'r anything about her. Of course, 
I ain't sayin' they was anything wrong, but folks always 
thought 

Josiah {suddenly thrusting head in door or window). Um- 
brellas t' mend ? 

(Alma starts ; Mrs. Y. jumps, pretending to be faint.) 

Mrs. p. Goodness — oh ! — mercy sakes alive {Sees 

JosiAH.) Oh, it's you, is it, Josiah Tizzard? I 
might 'a' knowed. You give me sech a start, I de- 
clare, I'm that faint (Sinks into chair.) 

Alma {going to her). Shall I call somebody? 

Mrs. p. {recovering). No, thanks ; it ain't nothin' much, 

28 



EOBIE TIES 

only y* see, I'm that weak. I think my heart's 

affected 

JosiAH {who has efitered, now coming down to L. c). Hope 

it's love, 
Mrs. p. What's that ? Love ? H'm ! I guess if it is, it 

ain't f'r you. Land, Josiah Tizzard, ain't you never 

go'n' t* give me a minute's peace? {To Alma.) He 

jest tags me up the hull time. 
Alma. Is he one of your ** symptoms '* 
Mrs. p. Huh ! guess he is. D' know but he'll be the 

death o' me, too. (Rises.) Ain't no operation 's I 

know of that'll cure me o' him. (l.) 
Alma. Oh, yes, there is. 
Mrs. p. I'd like t' know what. I'd try it. 
Alma. Why — marriage. 
Mrs. p. Ma — o-o-h, — h'm ! Wal, I guess 

(Tosses her heady with a disdainful look at Josiah, and 
exits y L.) 

Josiah. Good f'r you, miss. That's what I b'en a-gitt'n' 

at f'r the last five years ; but she won't listen t' me. 
Alma. So you're courting her, are you? 
Josiah. Hev b'en f'r a long time. Don't seem t' make 

much headway, though. Widders are stubb'rn critters. 
Alma. Well, there's nothing like patience, and I think 

you'll win in the end. 
Josiah. Do y', miss? 
Alma. Yes, I do. I see the "symptoms." 
Josiah. Glad y' do. If you could make out marryin* me 

was a disease, I cal'late she'd have me. Wal, I must 

jog along. {Up c.) Ain't got no umbrellas y' want 

mended, hev y' ? 
Alma. No, not just at present, thank you ; but if I should 

have, I'll let you know. 
Josiah {in d. f.). Thanks. Guarantee a fust-class job. 

'M goin* t' the village f'r a spell. Stop on m' way 

back 'n' see 'f Miss Winn's got any work t' be done. 

Good-day, miss. Much erbleeged. 

{Exit to L. Alma stands looking after hiniy smiling?) 

(Enter Ruth, r.) 

Ruth. Hello, Alma. Waiting for me ? 

29 



HOME TIES 

Alma {turning). Yes, and I began to think you never were 

coming. But I have been sufficiently amused. Mr. 

Tizzard has been here, and his inamorata, Mrs. Poplin. 
Ruth. Then you couldn't have lacked for entertainment. 

I'm sorry to have kept you waiting, but I was bathing 

my head. I have been having a terrible headache. 
Alma. I don't wonder. I should think a girl with two 

such ardent suitors would have a headache. 
Ruth. Alma ! 
Alma. Well, it's true. That Mr. Everett really seems to 

be in desperate straits, and as for Harold Vincent — 

well, I declare, he out-Romeos Romeo. 
Ruth. Was he here ? 
Alma. Here ? Of course he was here, and dying to see 

you, as usual. Do you — excuse me, dear, but you 

know I mean well, even if I do seem to meddle. May 

I say something ? 

{They are down c, or sitting on sofa^ l.) 

Ruth. Why, of course you may, Alma. Didn't we prom- 
ise to confide in each other, and have no secrets ? 

Alma. Ah, yes, but that was before love entered into the 
game. It's Harold Vincent I want to know about, 
Ruth. Do you love him ? 

Ruth. Love him ? You know I do, love him with all my 
heart. You knew it last winter, when I first met him. 
1 loved him then — at first sight — I love him now, more 
than ever — more and more ! 

Alma. Goodness, and you out- Juliet Juliet. It is serious, 
indeed. Has he — m'm — asked you to 

Ruth. N-no. 

Alma. But if he does, you mean to say 

Ruth. ''Yes." 

Alma. Then may you be happy. But I had hoped that — 
well, that it would be different. 

Ruth. You think I am not good enough for him — that I 
am beneath him. 

Alma. No — oh, no, not that. Quite to the contrary, I — 
but, there, I'm getting to be a regular mischief-maker, 
and I'd better mind my own business. If your head is 
better, let's go out and have a game of tennis. Romeo 
is out there, on nettles because his Juliet doesn't appear, 
so let us hie ourselves hither and end his suspense. 

30 



HOME TIES 

Ruth {stniling). If you will stop your nonsense, and not 
say such things where anybody can hear you. 

Alma. All right ; I promise. {UpinD.Y.) Come along. 

Ruth. But I'll have to run up-stairs and get my hat. The 
sun is very bright, (r.) 

Alma. Well, we'll be out there waiting for you. 

(^Exil Ruth, r. Alma, about to go out, 7?ieets Aunt M., 
who enters C. d. from l., looking somewhat more seri- 
ous than usual.) 

Aunt M. Oh, good- afternoon. Miss Wayne. Ruth here? 
Alma. She just went up after her hat. We are going to 

have a game of tennis. 
Aunt M. Well, before she comes down, I want to ask you 

something. I s'pose it'll seem like meddlin', but you 

know I brought her up, and have been like a mother to 

her. 
Alma. Yes, Miss Winn. 

(Harold heard laughing, off.) 

Aunt M. Well, I'm worried about that city fellow. Is 
he — do you think he means anything by coming here ? 

Alma. Yes. I think he means to win Ruth, if possible. 

Aunt M. And you think it is — that she 

Alma. I think she cares for him. 

Aunt M. Thinks she does. But I tell you what, I believe 
it's Len Everett she really loves, after all. 

Alma. Miss Winn ! 

Aunt M. {looking r.). I may be crazy, but for an old 
maid I think I've got a pretty good idea of such things. 
That Mr. Vincent is good-looking, and all that, but I 
don't believe he's steady. It's only natural, seems to 
me, that he'd get tired of any girl, after a while, and — 
well, it'd kill me if Ruth's heart was broken, too, like 
her — but there, I'm rattling on, and to almost a perfect 
stranger. Only I thought — it kind of occurred to me, 
that, being a city girl and all, you might not object to 
being kind of extra nice to — to Len Everett, you see — 
as if you — well, was kind of taken with him, and maybe 
— there, I guess you think I'm pretty bold. 

Alma {at first puzzled, then afnused, finally struck by the 
brightness of the idea). Oh — why — Miss Winn, I — 

31 



HOME TIES 

candidly, I don't think I'd mind flirting a little bit, 
and — well, the fact is, it would be worth while to make 
an impression on Mr. Everett, and in such a good 
cause, too. I'll — yes, I'll do it. That is, — try ! 

Aunt M. Good. Of course, you may find Len Everett 
kind of offish just at first, he's that cut up about 
Ruth, but he's more than flesh and blood if he can help 
brightening up a bit when you give him a few smiles. 

Alma. Dear me, I'm afraid you think me a sad coquette. 

Aunt M. {smiling). M'm — well, I don't know about the 
"sad" part. 

Alma. Oh, Miss Winn, how unkind. What have I 
done 

Aunt M. Nothing, my dear, I was just trying to tease you. 
All I meant was, I don't see how any man could resist 
you, once you went to work — but there, I guess I'm 
making it worse. I hope you're not offended. 

Alma. Mercy, no ; you have paid me quite a compliment. 
But I'll tell you what, I think you might follow my lead 
with good results. 

Aunt M. Me? I don't see what you mean by that. 
What could I do? 

Alma. Oh,— flirt ! 

Aunt M. What — me ? For goodness' sake, who with ? 

Alma. Mr. Tizzard. 

Aunt M. Josiah Tizzard ? Are you crazy ? What for ? 

Alma. For the same reason you want me to smile on Mr. 
Everett, to make somebody jealous and help Mr. Cupid 
along. 

Aunt M. Cupid ? Well, of all things ! Make who jeal- 
ous? 

Alma. Mrs. Poplin. Don't you understand? Make her 
think you favor Mr. Tizzard, and see if she doesn't 
make up her mind she wants him, as soon as she thinks 
you are trying to cut her out. 

Aunt M. Me ? — cut out Mrs. Poplin — with Josiah Tiz- 
zard ? I wouldn't have him if he was the only man 
under the sun. 

Alma. I don't suppose you would, but poor soul, he's get- 
ting desperate, and I think it's your duty to help him 
along. And if you make her jealous 

Aunt M. But I wouldn't know how to begin. I never 
flirted in my life 

32 



JffOME TIES 

Alma. Oh, that will be all right. All you have to do is 
watch me. If necessary, I could give you a few private 
lessons. You might find it useful to know how some 
time. 

Aunt M. Well, if you ain't a case. I always heard that 
city girls — but I guess I'm a little too old to begin flirt- 
ing 

Alma. Nothing of the sort. It's your duty. Think of 
poor Josiah. 

Aunt M. I declare, I don't know but it would be fun. 
I'll do it. Only I'm afraid it'll get me talked about — 
me flirting, at my time of life. 

Alma. But you needn't do it in public, only on the quiet. 
And think in what a good cause it is. Poor Mr. 
Tizzard ! 

Aunt M. I'm not so sure but what I'd be doing him a 
bigger favor by marrying her to somebody else 

Alma. Or marrying him yourself ? 

Aunt M. What— me ? Of all things ! If that's the way 
you're going to look at it 

Alma. No, of course not. I was only joking. 

{Enter Ruth, r., with hat. Alma looks at Aunt M., 
smiling^ and holds up a finger^ warningly,') 

Ruth. I'm ready. Sorry I was so long, but I stopped to 
brush my hair. (^Goes upy followed by Alma.) Com- 
ing out, auntie ? 

Aunt M. No, not now. I've got something else to do. 

(Ruth goes out c. d. to r. Kima. pauses in exit.) 

Alma. Oh, by the way, Mrs. Poplin is in there. I believe 
she has discovered some new symptoms and wants to 
tell you about them. 

Aunt M. What now, I wonder ? 

Alma. Oh, just a little touch of appendicitis. Now, don't 
forget. Miss Winn — and if you get stuck, watch me. 

(Alma laughs and exits to r. Aunt M. looks after her a 
moniefit, shaking her head, then smiling to herself. 
She goes l. , and is about to exit, when Martin enters 
c. D. from L. She comes back to C, as he speaks.') 

Martin. Well, Melissa. 

33 



HOME TIES 

Aunt M. Yes, Martin. 

Martin. He's come after her. 

Aunt M. Now, Martin, don't begin to take it that way, 
right at first. He seems to be a nice sort of fellow, and 
I don't believe he means anything that ain't right. 
Besides, it may not come to anything. Maybe it's the 
best thing in the world for them all to be here t'gether, 
where it can work itself out for the best. 

Martin. For the best? With that city fellow that she's 
all wrapped up in, here to take her away from us ? I 
just met him out there, and he said he wanted to speak 
to me in private — got something he wants to say to me. 
Don't you suppose I know what it is? Oh, but it's 
come like a thunderclap, just as it did that other 
time 

Aunt M. Martin ! Why, what do you want to take it so 
seriously for ? If you tell him no — send him away, and 
tell her — she'll give him up 

Martin. But I tell you, Melissa, she's bewitched, just the 
way her mother was. It's not only him, it's the city — 
the world — and he's the opportunity for her to get to 

them. He — with his face like (Turns away, 

overcome,') 

Aunt M. Like — why, Martin, what do you mean ? — like 
who? 

Martin. Him ! — like the man who — the man I ought to 
have killed, but didn't. Yes, he looks like that man — 
as he did then, when he turned my poor Clara's head 
— dazzled her eyes and her brain with his soft ways, 
his fine promises, and took her away from me — her 
husband. Yes, I ought to have killed him, but I 
didn't, because of her, and the little one— the poor, 
motherless little one, who has never dreamed that her 
mother wasn't all that a mother should be. And I let 
him live, and now — now another, looking like him, 
with the same handsome face and the same soft, win- 
ning ways, comes and wants to take that baby — my 
child — and hers — away from me. No, he shan't, I say 
—he shan't ! 
t 

{They have beefi down c. At the beginning of this speech 
Aunt M. sinks into a chair, listening with surprise 
and growing alarm. Martin stands c, speaking with 

34 



H03fE TIES 

suppressed excitement, until near the end of his speech ^ 
when he reaches a high pitchy finally going up to d. f., 
as if to rush out, I ut pauses in exit, looking off to r.) 

Aunt M. Martin, oh, Martin — don't ! Don't bring it all 

up again. 
Martin. He brought it up — that face ! There he is, out 

there, smilin' at her, and she at him. 
Aunt M. (rising, going up and trying to calm him^. But, 

Martin, he hasn't done anything, except love our Ruth 

and want her — and how can we blame him for that ? 

He hasn't carried her away, or done anything wrong. 

He's come here — to ask you — to 

Martin {looking off, calmer, but still greatly agitated). 

With that face — the face of — that other 

Aunt M. But what of that ? It only happens so, and — 

why, Martin, you don't think that — that he 

Martin. I don't know — it might be — stranger things have 

happened 

Aunt M. But it isn't the same name. His name was — it 

wasn't Vincent. 
Martin. No, I know it wasn't, but for all that — oh, I 

don't know — I — but I mean to find out. Yes, I'll ask 

him. I'll ask him who his father was, and I'll make 

him tell me the truth. 
Aunt M. Wait, Martin ; there may be another way. 

What if she didn't really love him so much, after all 

— if it was only a kind of infatuation, and we could 

make her see that it's Len Everett that she cares for. 

Wouldn't that be better than — the other way? 
Martin. What — do you think we could do that? She 

hardly looks at Len; she doesn't want him. It's that 

other one, I tell you, and I may have to — yes, if it 

comes to it, I'll tell her 

Aunt M. Martin — not 

Martin. Yes — the truth about her mother. 

Aunt M. Oh, Martin, you wouldn't do that — you 

couldn't 

Martin. To save her, I could — I would. But I'll see 

him first, and find out. 
Aunt M. But you'll be careful, Martin — you'll be careful? 

{She is by his side, trying to soothe him, urging him away 
from door, down R. c, whe7i Mrs. P. appears l.) 

35 



HOME TIES 

Mrs. p. Oh, 'xcuse me. 'M I interferin' ? 

Aunt M. No, Mrs. Poplin, of course not. Did Lindy find 

the hot water bottle for you ? 
Mrs. p. (coming to c). Yes, thanks, she did. (Shows 

small package which she carries.^ I'm goin' t' fill it 

with ice-cold water and hold it on my side. They says 

that's good f 'r appendiceetus. Do you think it is, Mr. 

Winn? 
Martin {who has gone r., about to go out^ now turns). 

Why, have you got that now ? 
Mrs. p. I've got the sym'toms, but I hope this'll help it. 

Oh, Mr. Winn, I You can't imagine how I 

suffer. 
Martin. No, I guess my imagination isn't quite so strong 

as yours. 

(Exit J R.) 

Mrs. p. My ! ain't he short? (Goes to R. and sits.) 

Aunt M. (c). Martin isn't very well, I guess. You 
mustn't mind him. 

Mrs. p. Oh, I don't. The men are all alike. But it 
seems t' me he looks kind o' worried about somethin'. 
I hope it ain't about Ruth 'n' her city beau. Of course, 
I ain't pryin' — that ain't me — but, land, I've got eyes, 
'n' a person can't help seein' things. (Turns and 
looks out c. D.) Playin' that long tennis game, ain't 
they? I don't see Len Everett out there. 

Aunt M. Why, no, of course not. I — I don't think he 
plays lawn tennis. Besides, Len hasn't been over to- 
day. I guess he's busy. 

Mrs. p. Mebbe he is. 'T any rate, I guess they wouldn't 
think he was good enough t' play with them. Len 
ain't what you'd call stylish, but for my part, as to 
bein' a good husband' — 'specially for a girl like Ruth, 
who — but there, I guess you think I'm meddlin', and 
that ain't me. Only, y' know, nat'rally I take a sort 
of an interest in Ruth, knowin* her so well, 'n' her 
father 'n' you, 'n' all. I hope you understand how I 
feel about it. Miss Winn ? 

Aunt M. Why, of course ; only I wouldn't imagine too 
much, if I was you. Seems to me you need all your 
imagination for your "symptoms." 

Mrs. p. D' y' mean that for a slur ? Wal, even if y* do, 

36 



HOME TIES 

I f rgive y'. It's my lot t' be misunderstood, 'n' not 
git sympathy. Mebbe when I'm gone, folks '11 believe 
I really was sick. 

(^Covers her face with handy sniveling.) 

Aunt M. I didn't mean anything, Mrs. Poplin. I was 

only joking. (Rises.) Why, here comes Len Everett 

now. 
Mrs. p. You don't say. I wonder what he wants ? 
Aunt M. Oh, I guess he just ran over. (Goes to c. d., 

meets Len., who enters from l.) How d' do, Len? 
Len. Good-afternoon, Miss Winn. {To Mrs. P.) How 

do you do, Mrs. Poplin ? 
Mrs. p. Good-afternoon. 
Len. I wanted to see Mr. Winn a minute, Miss Winn. Is 

he here ? 
Aunt M. Yes, Len, I'll call him. 

{Exity R.) 

Mrs. p. {she has risen, is now up c, looking off ). I was 
jest sayin' t' Miss Winn, Len, 't I wondered if you 
didn't ever play long tennis. 

Len. (down r.). Tennis ? No. I have better use for my 
time than tossing a ball back and forth in the air. Life 
is too short for that sort of thing. 

Mrs. p. Yes, life is so uncertain. I guess I realize that, 
the condition I'm in. But they seem t' think it's all 
they is. Ruth and that city feller seem t' be pretty 
thick. Goin' t' let him cut you out, Len ? 

Len. I don't know what you mean, Mrs. Poplin. 

Mrs. p. Land, I guess you do. You needn't think you 
can fool me, Len Everett. I've known you ever sence 
you was a baby, 'n' Ruth Winn, too, 'n' I c'n see 
what's goin' on here 's plain 's I want to. (He makes 
a gesture of remonstrance.) Oh, you may deny it, 
but I've got eyes, 'n' a little common sense, I hope. 
If I was you, I wouldn't act like a fool 'n' give up so 
easy, the very first thing. 

Len. Mrs. Poplin 

Mrs. p. There now, don't git mad. I'm goin' t' say what 
I think, b'cause I know it's f 'r your good, 'n' if you 
don't like it, well, sometimes the bitterest pill 't's the 

37 



H03IE TIES 

hardest t* swaller is what we need the most. If you let 
that city feller carry off Ruth Winn, without givin* him 
a tussle for it, you ain't the man I al'ays took y' for. 

Len. Indeed ? You are plain spoken and no mistake, Mrs. 
Poplin. But, seeing you have taken it upon yourself 
to run my affairs, please tell me what you think I ought 
to do. 

Mrs. p. Be a man, that's what, 'n' not a ninny. My 
opinion is that Ruth Winn knows you're worth a hun- 
derd o' that feller any day, only he knows how t' make 
love, 'n' you don't. She's kind o' took with him, 'n' 
the idee o' city life, 'n' all that, but she ain't his kind, 
'n' — say, Len, I've got an idee. 

Len. I should say so — quite a number of them. What's 
the latest ? 

Mrs. p. (^getting close to hmi^ speaking confidentially ^ with 
a glance out c). You make up to that city girl. 

Len. (^getting away from her). What ? 

Mrs. p. Oh, I ain't crazy. I jest thought it might be 
worth tryin' t' make Ruth Winn jealous a little, 'n' see 
what comes of it. 

Len. Jealous? She doesn't care enough for me for that. 

Mrs. p. I've heard 't love's blind, 'n' I declare, you prove 
it. You couldn't see through a barn door wide open, 
where y'r own happiness is concerned. I hate t' see a 
man give up s' easy. Look at Josiah Tizzard. Why, 
they ain't no gett'n' red o' him. I've declared a thou- 
sand times I wouldn't have him, but I may have t*, after 
all, t' stop his actions. Then look at you. You say 
you love Ruth, 'n' let on you can't live without her, 
'n' then the very first dude 't comes along, you up 'n' 
let him have her, without s* much 's putt'n' in a pre- 
vious claim. 

Len. But, Mrs. Poplin, you don't understand. I am only 
thinking of Ruth's happiness. 

Mrs. p. Yes, 'n' lett'n' y'r own go t' smash. B'sides, I 
ain't s' sure but if y'r thinkin' of her happiness, you'll 
try t' keep that city feller from gitt'n' her, 'stid of step- 
pin' aside 'n' makin' the way clear for him. Ain't it 
ever occurred t' you that mebbe it's you she likes best 
after all, only he's kind o' dazzled her — him 'n' the 
city 'n' all — and 

Len. No — no. I wish I could think that. 

38 



ffOdlE TIES 

Mrs. p. Wal, anyhow, make an effort. Carry on a bit 
with that city girl, 's I said, 'n' see how Ruth takes it. 

Len. I wouldn't stoop to such a thing. 

Mrs. p. Huh! "All's fair in love 'n' war," I've heard 
say, 'n' I don't see 's there'd be anything stoopin' 
about it. Supposin' you think it over. (She goes l.) 
I declare, I f 'rgot t' ask Miss Winn t' borrow some 
mustard. I want t' try a mustard paste on m' side, 'f 
this hot water bottle don't do no good. I'll go 'n' ask 
her now. (l.) Better think it over, Len. Remem- 
ber, " all's fair " 

{£xtf, L.) 

(^He stands c, looking after her, at first showing some an- 
noyance, then smiling to himself knowingly, with a 
slight sideways motion of his head, as if thinking, 
** Well, I don't know ; it might be worth trying.V He 
ponders a moment longer, then starts up c. , with a sud- 
den air of '^ I'll do it f As he is about to exit c. 
Alma runs in, gaily, carrying a ten?iis racquet. He 
comes back to r. c, she to c.) 

Alma. Good-afternoon, Mr. Everett. In here all by your- 
self? Why don't you come out and join us? Don't 
you ever play tennis ? 

Len. No. But — I wish I did. 

Alma. Well, I don't see anything to hinder your learning. 
Just at the present moment, however, I'm simply per- 
ishing for a drink. Would you mind seeing if Lindy 
will bring me some water ? 

Len. Not at all. (^Goesi.. Calls off. ^ Lindy — Lindy 
Jane. 

Lindy (<?^L.). Yassir. What yo' want? 

Len. Won't you bring a glass of water for Miss Wayne, 
please? {Comes back to c.) Now, I trust we can save 
you from perishing. 

Alma. Thank you. {After a slight pause.) M'm — do 
you like the country, Mr. Everett ? 

Len. The country? Why, of course I do. It's my 
home. 

Alma. Yes, of course — I know it is. But I mean — don't 
you ever wish you lived in the city — that you were 
where there was more going on, where you could see 

39 



HOME TIES 

more? It seems to me I should dry up and blow 
away, if I had to stay here. Of course, it's all very 
nice in the summer, for a few weeks — it's grand, then 
— but all the year round — mercy ! 
Len. But we have been brought up differently, you know, 

and {Enter Lindy, l., with glass of water.) 

Here's the water, Miss Wayne. 

{Takes glass from Lindy and gives it to her. Lindy tar- 
ries L.) 

Alma. Thank you. {Drinks nearly all in the glass, which 
she then gives to Lindy.) Thank you, Lindy. You've 
saved my life. 

Lindy. La, missy, how Ah done that? 

Alma. Why, I was dying of thirst, and you quenched it. 

Lindy. Yass'm, Ah done squenched it. Yo's welcome. 
{Starts L., but comes back, looking at Alma with great 
admiration.) My, but dat suah am a purty dress, 'n* 
all. (J'^? Len.) Ain't she jes* scrumptious? 

Alma. Why, Lindy. 

Len. {smiling). Yes, Lindy, I quite agree with you. 

Lindy. Yassir, she sutt'n'ly do look grand. 'F Ah was a 
fellah. Ah 'spect 's how Ah'd be a-faUin' raight in lub 
wid 'er. Ain't yo' gwine do it, Misser Ev'rett? 

(Len. turns away toward r. ; Alma blushingly goes to 
Lindy.) 

Alma. Why, Lindy, you mustn't talk like that. You may 
go now. {She finally urges her off L.) Dear me, she's 
almost as bad as that funny Mrs. PopHn, isn't she? 
{Goes to Len. ; stands close to him.) You mustn't 
mind her, Mr. Everett, she's only a child, and — oh, 

excuse me. I didn't mean {He turns to 

her, with an expression of kindly interest, as if to 
show appreciation of her sympathy, and she is about 
to place a hand on his arm, looking up into his 
face, when Ruth enters suddenly, C, accompanied 
by Harold. Ruth sees them; seems surprised 
at their friendliness. Harold also shows surprise, 
mingled with annoyance. Alma seeing them, steps a 
short distance away from Len.) Oh, Ruth, Mr. 
Everett says he doesn't know how to play tennis, and I 
40 



H03IE TIES 

was just telling him he ought to learn. Suppose we 

teach him ? 
Ruth. Why, yes, of -course. If you wish to learn, Len. 
Len. {going up R.). Thank you, perhaps — some other 

time. 
Alma. That'll make four, Ruth — ^just enough. You and 

Harold can play against Mr. Everett and me, and — oh, 

by the way, I don't believe they have met. 
Ruth. Oh, I beg your pardon, Len ; this is Mr. Vincent. 

Harold, my old friend, Leonard Everett. (Len. and 

Harold exchange greetings^ shaking hands somewhat 

constrainedly. Len. goes up to c. d. Enter Aunt M., 

'L.y followed by Mrs. P.) Are you going, Len? 
Len. Yes. I just started to drive over to Harleyville. 
Alma {going up by him, looking off). Oh, is that your 

horse out there ? 
Len. Yes. I've just bought him. What do you think of 

him? 
Alma. He's a beauty. Please take me along, won't you ? 

I'd love to have a ride. 
Len. Would you, really? 
Alma. I should say so. May I ? 
Len. If they'll excuse you ? 
Alma. Why, of course they will. {To Ruth.) Won't 

you? 
Ruth {somewhat taken aback, showing her surprise, which 

is almost chagrin, iti spite of herself ). Certainly. 
Alma. Come on, Mr. Everett. I'm just crazy for a ride 

in that buggy, behind that horse. 

{She goes off to l., in high spirits, accompanied by Len., who 
nods to the others as he goes. Aunt M. goes up and 
looks off after them.) 

Aunt M. {calling). Bring her back in time for supper, 

Len. 
Len. {without). All right. Miss Winn ; I will. 
Alma {without). Sure. Good-bye, all ! 

(Ruth goes down to r., looking rather solemn, as if hardly 
able to grasp the situatiofi. H\ROhB follows her, and 
they talk in pantomime. Aunt M. crosses to L., near 
Mrs. p.) 

41 



nOME TIES 

Aunt M. (^o Mrs. P.). Well ! — what do you think of 
that? 

Mrs. p. {motioning toward Ruth and Harold). Sh ! 
It's beginnin* t' work. {Goes up.) I must be goin' 
now. {To Ruth and Harold.) Good -afternoon. 

Ruth {turning). Good-bye, Mrs. Poplin. Come over 
again soon. 

Mrs. p. Thanks, I will if I feel able. But you *n' your 
friend come over 'n' see me. {Down R. c. — to Har- 
old.) Be pleased t' have you, Mr. — Vincent. My 
home ain't grand, but sech as it is, you'll be welcome. 

{He bows and smiles condescendingly. She crosses back 
to L., to get the small package which she has left on 
chair or table. Aunt M. is l. c. All of a sudden 
JosiAU puts his head in c. d.) 

Josiah. Umbrellas t' mend ? 

Aunt M. Oh, that you, Josiah? Come in. 

Josiah {entering). Thanks. Don't care 'f I do. {To 
Ruth and Harold.) How d' do, folks? {Sees 
Mrs. p.) Still here, Mari' ? 

Mrs. p. {disdaijifully). Mari' ! — huh ! 

Aunt M. {to Josiah, cordially, bringing a chair). Now, 
sit right down, Josiah. You must be tired, after your 
walk in the hot sun. Shan't I get you a drink? 

Josiah. No, thanks, Miss Winn ; I ain't dry. 

Aunt M. I should think you would be. ( Gets fan from 
table or mantel,) We wouldn't want you to get a sun- 
stroke. {Fans him.) 

Josiah {bewildered by her attentiony but inclined to like it). 
Wal, 'tis kind o' warmish. 

Aunt M. Let me take your hat. 

(Aunt M. takes his hat^ lays it on table^ then goes back 
and continues to fan him. Mrs. P. looks at theviy 
surprised^ and beginfiing to bristle up. She sniffs, 
with a glare at Aunt M., who pretends not to notice, 
but still hovers over Josiah.) 

Josiah {to Harold). No umbrellas t' mend? 
Harold {laughing). No, thanks, not to-day. 

{He and Ruth are r., loo ki fig on ivith a show of amuse- 
ment.) 
42 



E03IE TIES 

Mrs. P. (preparing fo go). I'm goin'. Nobuddy seems t' 
think I'm sufferin' fr'm the hot sun, 'n' me weak 's I 
am. {They do not notice her. She goes up to Q.. d.) 
I'm goin' on home, Miss Winn. Thanks f 'r the hot 
water bottle. 

Aunt M. You're welcome. Going, are you ? 

Mrs. p. Yes. ( With a glance at Josiah.) 'N' if any- 
buddy's goin' my way 

Josiah {rising). Why, yes — I be. 

Aunt M. {giving him his hat). Now, you be careful, 
Josiah, and not get overcome, it's so hot. {Puts his 
hat on J showing solicitude.) You see that he doesn't 
overexert himself, won't you, Mrs. Poplin ? If you let 
him get a sunstroke, I'll never forgive you. 

Mrs. p. Huh ! I guess Josiah Tizzard's able t' take care 
of himself; you needn't worry. Come on, Josiah, if 
you're going with me. 

{She urges Josiah up c, and they go off to r. Ruth fol- 
lows, with a glance at Harold, who is about to ac- 
company her, when Martin enters r. Aunt M. is 
about to go to him J but he motions for her to leave and 
she exits l. Harold looks arou?td, Just as he is going 
outf and pauses as he sees Martin, coming back part 
way down c.) 

Harold. Why, good-afternoon, Mr. Winn. 

Martin. Good-afternoon. Having a good time in the 
country ? 

Harold {with a short , insincere laugh). Why, yes, of 
course I am. I think *< rural felicity" is great. 

Martin. Oh, you do ? — " rural felicity " ? It isn't always 
that, young man. Sometimes the ''felicity," as you 
call it, gets upset, and things aren't as smooth and full 
of happiness as they look. Country people have hearts, 
too, you know — the same as you that live off there in 
the big city and see and know the world. 

Harold. Why, of course they have. I never doubted 
that, Mr. Winn. Haven't I come here to claim one of 
the best and truest hearts that ever beat — the heart 
of 

Martin. Of my little girl. Yes, I know. You want her. 
You want to take her away from me, don't you ? Do 
you know what that means to me, Mr. Vincent ? 

43 



HOME TIES 

Harold. I — I know what it means to me, and what it will 
mean to her. I love her, and with that love I have 
everything that can make her happy — wealth, position 
— all that a girl can desire. She loves me too, Mr. 
Winn — she has told me so — and 

Martin. I know she thinks she does, and maybe it's so. 
She hasn't seen much of the world, and she is dazzled 
by you and the world you offer to take her into. I 
know. You may mean well — I'm not saying that I 
doubt you do — but I'm not sure — not sure it would be 
for her good, for her happiness 

Harold (again laughing lightly). Pshaw ! — why, of course 
it would. Just think what I can give her, compared to 
what she has here. 

Martin. You can't give her more love, more tender care — 
a home where she will be so safe from the dangers of 
the great world. I know what the world is — what it 
means to live as you live 

Harold. Ha ! how should you know ? You mustn't be- 
lieve all you read about city life, about — us — and all 
that. It's nonsense, and you're only standing in her 
light — in the way of her happiness. 

Martin. I know — I know 

(Ruth suddenly appears in c. d. ; does not see Martin, 
who stands r. c. Harold is up c.) 

Ruth. Why, Harold, how long you are. Aren't you 
coming ? I want you. 

Harold. Oh, do you ? (Sfniles at Martin.) I'm com- 
ing — at once. 

{^He goes to her, puts out his hand to her^ and they go mer- 
rily off to l. He is heard again laughing, in the same 
manner as before, as they disappear. Martin goes upj 
looks after them^ sadly shakes his head, slowly.^ 



curtain 



44 



ACT III 

SCENE. — Same as before, one week later. It is evenings 
and the doors and windows are open, disclosing the 
yard and lawn, with decoratiofis of Japanese lanterns, 
etc. Music — that of piano, organ or a small country 
orchestra — 7nay be heard outside. Lindy is discovered 
sta?iding up c, looking off , in coftsiderable excitement. 
If there is music, she may be dancing to it, thinking that 
she is unnoticed. Aunt M. enters l. ; stands a moment 
watching her, before speaking. 

Aunt M. Well, Lindy Jane — enjoying yourself? 

Lindy. Yass'm, Ah is. 'Sense me, but 's the veh firs' 
party Ah evah was at, 'n* Ah reckon Ah d' know jes' 
how t' act. Golly, ain' dey all 'nj'yin' deyseves ! 

Aunt M. I s'pose they are, and I'm glad of it. A party's 
lots of trouble and I didn't feel much like having it, 
but Ruth wanted to, and of course her father set in to 
let her have her own way, as usual. You can't blame 
young folks, I suppose, for wanting to have a good 
time. 

Lindy. No, 'm. Ole folks, too, Ah reckon. Mis* Poplin, 
she's out dare, dressed up t' kingdom come ; 'n' Mistah 
Tizzard, too. 

Aunt M. Yes, Ruth insisted on inviting them. Said she 
wanted all her friends to come and have a good time, 
and I guess it's just as well, or they'd have said she 
was stuck-up. You'd better go out and see to the 
refreshments, Lindy Jane. It'll soon be time to serve 
them. 

Lindy {starting to go l., but lingering to look off c). 
Yass'm. Golly, but dat ice-cream's lickin' good — cold, 
too. 

Aunt M. Of course it is. You don't expect ice-cream to 
be hot, do you ? Now, you go and cut the cake, and 
get things ready. I'll be out in a few minutes and 
help. Mrs. Poplin said she'd help, too, and I'll let her 
know it's most time. 

Lindy (l.). Yass'm. Reckon dey's all gwine be willin' t' 
help, when 't comes t' eat'n'. Me, too. He ! he ! 

45 



HOME TIES 

(^Exit L., chuckling to herself.) 

(Aunt M. goes up c. and stands looking off, just as Martin 
enters R. He pauses r. c.) 

Martin. They seem to be enjoying it, Melissa. 

Aunt M. Yes, Martin, they are. Come and look at them. 
I never saw our Ruthie so happy. How pretty she 
looks ! 

Martin (J?y her side, looking off). Yes — ^just like her 
mother. 

Aunt M. Yes, Martin ; but try to forget that. What's 
the use calling it up ? 

Martin. The use, Melissa ? As if I could help it, when 
I see her the very image of her mother, and him by her 
side — with the face of that man. I tell you, Melissa, 
I'm living it all over again, and I don't know as I can 
stand much more. I feel as if I might do something 
desperate. 

Aunt M. Oh, Martin, don't talk that way. You scare 
me. Don't make me go through again what I went 
through that other time, eighteen years ago, when it 
was all I could do to keep you from — from 

Martin. Committing murder. Yes, — murder. Say it, for 
it's true. If it hadn't been for you, I'd have done it, 
too. I've blessed you for keeping me from it, ever 
since, Melissa — for her sake, and yours; but I've 
always felt, and I do to this day, that I had a right to 
kill him. 

Aunt M. No, no, Martin — no ! Nobody ever has a right 
to do a thing like that. No cause ever made it right 
to do a wicked thing, and — but oh, Martin, we mustn't 
talk about it. We agreed we never would, and to- 
night, too, — think of it, when Ruth is having her party 
and they are all so happy. (^She puts her hand on his 
arm and urges him away from window, down to R. C.) 
There, now, don't give way to such thoughts. I've got 
to go in the kitchen and help Lindy Jane get the re- 
freshments ready, and I want you to chirk up and get 
ready to eat some ice-cream and cake. {Goes l.) 

Martin. All right, Melissa, I will. Don't you worry 
about me. 

Aunt M. That's right. You see if you can't find Mrs. 

46 



HOME TIES 

Poplin and tell her I want her. She said she'd help 
with the refreshments. 

{Exity L.) 

(Martin stands c. ; after a slight pause goes upy looks off 
agairtj then shakes his head slowly ^ as if to watch the 
festivities were too much for him. He walks slowly 
to R., near table or stand up r. c, on which is the 
family album. Unconsciously y his hand rests on the 
album and remains there for a moment j as he stands 
in silence, musing. Mechanically , he opens the album, 
slowly turfiing a few pages without looking at it. 
Then he glances down at it, still 7iot seeming to realize 
what he is doing; turns another page or two, till it re- 
mains open, and he glances down at a certain picture. 
He remains looking at it for a moment, as recognition 
of the face depicted slowly comes to him. Then, with 
a sudden, half stifled cry, he places both hands over the 
picture, as if he could not bear to look at it, after a 
moment lifting his hands, giving one fond, agonized 
look at the picture, then sinks down, burying his face 
on his arms, which are folded over the album. He 
remains thus, sobbing very gently, and after a pause 
Ruth runs in c, at first not seeing him. She is ani- 
mated, laughingly glances about, finally sees Martin 
and suddenly becomes sober, as she goes and lays a 
hand on his shoulder.^ 

Ruth. Why, father ! Father — what is it ? Is anything 
the matter ? 

Martin (^looking up, with the album still open'). No, dear, 
of course not. 

Ruth (noticing the picture). Her picture. You were look- 
ing at that — the picture of my mother. Father, why 
have you never told me anything about her ; I mean, 
anything about — about her death, and — and how it was 
that she did not live here, and that she is buried so far 
away 

Martin {putting an arm about her and urging her to c, 
leaving the album open on table). Why, Ruthie, dear, 
I have nothing to tell you, and, besides, this is no time 
for such memories, for anything sad, when you are 
having a party and everybody is so happy. There, 

47 



HOME TIES 

there, run away now, to your company, and have a good 
time. 

Ruth {detaining him as he tries to put her off^. But — 
father, there is something I wanted to speak to you 
about. It's Len, father — Len Everett. Don't you 
think it is funny, the way he is acting ? I mean, with 
— with Alma Wayne ? 

Martin. Hey? With Miss Wayne? Why, how is he 
acting with her ? 

Ruth. Well, I don't know as it really is so Ynuch him as 
it is her, but — you know, she is a sort of a flirt — she 
admits it — but I didn't think she would flirt with 
Len, nor that he would encourage her the way he 
does. 

Martin. M'm — does he? Well, perhaps he likes it. Per- 
haps he likes her, and — and wants her. 

Ruth. Wants her ? Oh, father, how ridiculous ! Why, 
she isn't his kind at all, and I'm sure she wouldn't want 
him. He is only a — a farmer 

Martin. And you are only a farmer's daughter — or the 
daughter of only a farmer — and you seem to think that 
somebody from the city wants you, 

Ruth. Oh, — well, — of course ; but — why, that's different. 
I have been to the city, I met Mr. Vincent — Harold — 
there, and — of course, I don't mean to flatter myself, 
and I don't think I'm a bit better than Len, but it does 
seem as if there was quite a difference. 

Martin. I suppose there is, in a way. But, remember, 
dear, if you don't want Len yourself, you mustn't ob- 
ject to somebody else getting him. He is too fine a 
man not to make some girl a good husband. 

Ruth. I know it — of course ; but, to tell the truth, father, 
I don't think Alma Wayne is worthy of him. I don't 
think she would make him happy, or be happy herself. 
But it's ridiculous to think of such a thing, I suppose. 
I mustn't stay here talking another minute. They'll all 
wonder where I am. I just wanted to ask Aunt Melissa 
if I could help her. Where is she? 

Martin. In the kitchen. But she doesn't need you. 
Lindy is there, and Mrs. Poplin said she'd help with 
the refreshments. You might send her in, though. 

Ruth {going up). Yes, I will, if I can tear her away from 
Mr. Tizzard. Something has come over her lately ; 

48 



HOME TIES 

she hardly leaves his side a minute. Acts as if she was 
afraid somebody would steal him. Ha ! Ha ! 

{She laughs and exitSy c. d. to r. Martin is r. Lindy 
sticks head in l.) 

Lindy. Miss Aunt M'lissy says, whar's Mis' Poplin ? Send 
her in. 

{Exit.) 

(Martin goes tip, meets Mrs. P., who hurries in from R.) 

Mrs. p. I declare, I most f rgot I promised Miss Winn t' 
help with them refreshments. Ruth says she wants me. 
Land, I hope she don't think I'm tryin' t' shirk. She 
ought t' know better — that ain't me — but I d' know but 
it looks like it. 'S she out here? (l.) 

Martin. Yes. Be careful you don't work too hard, Mrs. 
Poplin. It might be bad for your — let me see — ap- 
pendicitis ? 

Mrs. p. No, it wa'n't that. I thought it was — I was sure 
I had the symptoms. It was nothin' but a stitch in the 
side, after all. 

Martin. Well, they say a stitch in the side saves nine 

Mrs. p. Land, you mean ''in time." But I ain't well. 
No ; I think I've got weak lungs — sometimes I cough 
something terrible. (^Forces a slight cough.) See how 
hollow it sounds ? 

Martin. Don't know but it does. 

Mrs. p. Yes, I think they's signs of it. {Looks off c. to 
r.) For the land, if here don't come Josiah Tizzard. 
He jest tags me the hull time. Don't you tell him 
where I be. 

{She waits till she is sure Josiah sees her, as he looks in c, 
then, pretending that she wishes to avoid him, exits l.) 

Josiah {entering c). "There she goes, sweet as a rose, 
all dressed up in her Sunday-go-t'-meet'n' -clothes." 
Thought I didn't see her, but I did. Huh ! she needn't 
think she's the only one. 

Martin. How you coming along, Josiah ? Has she said 
" Yes " yet? 

Josiah. No. Ain't asked her, right out. Wait'n' t' clinch 
it. {Goes to L. ; looks out.) Lots o' love-makin' goin' 

49 



HOME TIES 

on 'round here, seems t' me. Your gal goin' t' git that 
city feller ? Don't like his looks, much. Too fancy f r 
a man, 's my 'pinion. Don't never no good come from 
a gal's marryin* f'r looks. 'Tain't al'ays the fine- 
lookin' umbreller with a silk cover that wears the best. 
Now, that city feller's silk all right, when it comes t* 
looks, but Len Everett, he's all wool 'n' a yard wide. 
That's my 'pinion, 'f anybuddy was t' ask it. Guess 
I'll go out 'n the kitchen a spell. 

{Exity L.) 

(Martin, who is r. c, goes to r., and as he sees Len. and 
Alma coming, goes out r. They enter c. D.,from l.) 

Alma. Why, Mr. Everett, you're a real gallant. I wonder 
where you ever learned to make so many pretty 
speeches ? 

Len. Oh, I don't know. I suppose you think, because I 
have lived in the country all my life, I have no romance 
in my soul, and don't know how things are done out in 
the world ? 

Alma. Why, no, I didn't mean that — of course. I was 
only thinking — well, I guess the more I say, the worse 
I make it, so I'd better keep still. Only, you see — ^ 

Len. Yes, I see, and I understand. But you must remem- 
ber, I have been to the city once or twice, for a visit ; 
I have read a few books, and — and kept my eyes open. 
Haven't I had a pretty good example in gallantry and 
love-making, the past few weeks ? 

Alma. Oh, you mean Harold Vincent, and — Ruth? Y- 
yes, I suppose you have. He certainly did seem to be 



smitten with her, and 



Len. Did ? 

Alma. VVhy — m'm — I mean is, of course. Only — dear 
me, I'm afraid we're gossiping, and I wouldn't want to 
be called a gossip too. " Flirt " is bad enough. 

( IVh-y are down r. c, close together, not noticing Kvtk, 
who appears c. D., and stafids for a moment watching 
them.) 

Len. Please don't think I ever called you that. 

Alma. But you think it. 

50 



H03IE TIES 

(She turns slightly, so as to catch a glimpse of Ruth, who 
does not know that Alma sees her.) 

Len. No, I don't. I— well, I can't tell you what I think, 

because I am not a poet. 
Alma (putting a hand on his shoulder y looking up into his 

face). Oh, — my, another pretty speech. I begin to 

think you are a poet — at heart. And, oh, it is so sweet 

to be admired by a poet ! 

(She leans slightly against him, so that from the back he 
may seem almost to be efnbracifig her. Ruth stares at 
them, flushing, starts to cofne dowti, then tosses her 
head and hastily exits CD. ton. Alma sees her, laughs 
merrily, and goes up, followed part way by Len., who 
does not understand.) 

Len. Now you are laughing at me. You were all the 
time. I might have known you would. 

Alma. Oh, how cruel. That spoils all the nice things you 
have said. (Goes up.) 

Len. (following her). I'm sorry. I didn't mean any- 
thing. 

Alma. You needn't apologize. But I forgive you, — there! 

(She extends her hands, which he takes, as they go out c. D. 
to L. As they disappear, Lindy efiters L. She wears 
a white apron, which nearly envelops her, and is lick- 
ing a large spoon.) 

Lindy. M-m'm, but dat's good, dat ar ice-cream. Ah 
could eat a hull bushel. Nevah did see nuffin so good. 

(Licks spoon industriously, as Josiah enters l.) 

JosiAH. What y' doin' of, Lindy Jane — gitt'n' spoony? 

He ! He ! 
Lindy. Guess Ah wouldn't be de only one, 'f Ah did. Yo' 

's be'n dar yo'se'f. Ah reckon. 
Josiah. Reckon I hev'. Say, Miss Winn says f 'r you t' 

take oif that apern 'n' bring back that spoon, 'n' then 

tell Ruth she wants her. Wants t' ask her 'bout where 

t* set 'em at the table. 
Lindy. All right. (Hands him the spoon.) Yuh, yo' take 

dat. (Removes apron, which she also gives him.) 'N' 

dis. Now Ah'll tell 'er. 

51 



HOME TIES 

JosiAH. All right. {Drops the spoon.) 

LiNDY. Now see what y' done went 'n' did. {Picks up 
spooji and hands it to him. He takes ity again starts 
to go, trips over apron, nearly falls.') La sakes, look 
out 'r yo' 's gwine break yo' neck. {He starts again ; 
drops spoon.) Fo' de land o* libin' ! {Again picks 
up spoon, again gives it to him, and helps him out l., 
carefully, holding him together.) Ah declar', he's 
wuss 'n' p'is'n. {Goes up to C.) Yuh dey comes 
now. 

{Enter Ruth atid Harold, c. d. r. Lindy retires up r., 
afid they do not notice her.) 

Ruth. Just think, Harold, it is only — about eight months, 
since I first met you, and it seems — why, it seems as if 
I had known you — almost always. 

Harold. Yes, dear — yes, of course it does. 

Ruth. Does it — really — seem so to you, too, Harold? 
Are you sure ? 

Harold. Of course I'm sure, you little inquisitor. It — it 
seems as if life began with the moment I first met you. 

Ruth. M'm — that's a very pretty speech, to be sure, only 
— well, I — I am not sure you said it exactly as if you 
meant it. 

Harold. Why, Ruth, dear, what do you mean? You 
aren't beginning to doubt me? 

Ruth. N-no ; but — er — Harold, how long have you known 
Alma? 

Harold. Alma? Known her? Oh, for a long time — 
years ; ever since we were children. Why ? What has 
that to do with it ? 

Ruth. N-nothing. I wondered, that's all. That's the 
way I have known Leonard Everett — always — ever since 
we were children. We went to school together the first 
day either of us ever went, and he carried my lunch- 
basket. And he carried it every day after that — almost 
every day — as long as either of us went. Then we 
stopped going — and I went away to boarding-school, 
and — met you — and — how different it all is now. Isn't 
it? 

LiNDY, who has stood up r., looking out of window or 
door, 710W looks at them, mischievously, and co?nes 
down.) 

52 



EOBfE TIES 

Harold. Why, yes, of course 

LiNDY. He ! he ! Ah done cotched y' at it. Sparkin' ! 
Ruth. Lindy ! how dare you ? Go into the kitchen at 

once. I shall tell Aunt Melissa. 
Lindy (going l.). Yass'm, Miss Roof. But Ah ain' gwine 

tell. No, sir-ree. Mout git cotched mahse'f. He ! he ! 

{About to go outy pauses in exit.') Miss Aunt M'lissy, 

she done say fo' me t' say she want yo'. He ! he ! he ! 

(Exit Lindy, l., giggling. Ruth looks after her^ blushing. 
Harold smiles indulgently.) 

Ruth. Isn't she provoking? She saw us. 

Harold. What of it? {He has gone r., by table, near 

which he now is standing.) She's not worth noticing. 

Besides, I guess they all know. 

(He stands so that he casually glances down and sees the 
album on table. Sits down and absent-mindedly looks 
at the photographs. Ruth starts l. , not noticifig what 
he is doing. As she reaches l., he sees the picture at 
which Martin had been looking, starts, rises, showing 
surprise, which is in the nature of amazement. Ruth, 
i7i surprise at his action, goes a few steps toward c.) 

Ruth. Why, Harold, what's the matter ? 

Harold (pointing to album). This picture — here — who is 

that? 
Ruth (going to his side, looking at album). Which one? 

(Enter Martin, r., unseen by them; stands looking on.) 

Harold. This one (Puts finger on picture, agitated.) 

Ruth. That ? Why, that's a picture of my mother. 

Harold. Your — mother ? 

Ruth. Yes, of course. But, Harold, what — you have 
never seen her — she died years ago, when I was a 
month old. What is it — what do you mean 

Harold. Nothing. It is nothing — I suppose it is the like- 
ness — it looks so much like you. 

Ruth. Yes, so father says. He always said I looked like 
her. 

(Martin stands r., showing signs of suppressed emotion, 
which has increased. He stares at Harold, as if 
mad, but succeeds in calming himself as he comes for- 
ward, but still has his eyes fixed on Harold's face.) 

53 



E03IE TIES 

Martin. Ruth, your Aunt Melissa wants you. Go to her. 

Ruth. Yes, father — but 

Martin. Go to her, I say. {Points l.) 

Ruth {frighte?ied, starting L., with a pleading look at him). 

But, father 

Martin. Do as I tell you. I want to speak to — to Mr. 

Vincent — alone 

(Ruth, almost in tears, trembling with amazement and 
fear, goes out L. Harold stands r., by table, not 
comprehending what it all means, looking at Ruth, 
then at Martin. Martin goes l. , to make sure Ruth 
is out of hearing, then comes back to c.) 

Harold. Sir ! What does this mean ? I don't under- 
stand 

Martin {sternly). Let me look at you. This way — turn 
this way. Look me full in the face. 

Harold. Yes, sir. 

{Turns squarely to him, meeting his gaze unflinchingly.) 

Martin {after a mojnent^ s piercing scrutijiy of 'Hk^O'Lvi's 
features). Yes — I thought so. You have his face. 
(Harold starts to speak, but he stops him, taking hold 
of his shoulders and turning hitn about so that he faces 
the table.) Now — look at that picture. {Causes htm 
to look at picture in album.) This one — there 

{Points to picture with trembling hand, his face livid with 
excitement.) 

Harold. Yes, sir ; I see it. 

Martin. You see it — and you have seen it before ? 

Harold. No, sir; never. Never until just now — five 

minutes ago. I — I don't know what you mean. 
Martin. But you have seen her — that woman — that 

face 

Harold. No, sir, I never saw the woman — I never saw the 

face — I 

Martin. Don't lie to me ! 

Harold. Sir ! If you mean to insult me — I will not stay 

here. If you were not her father 

{Starts to go up, but Martin detains him.) 
Martin. You say you never saw that face — that picture — 

54 



HOME TIES 

before? Then tell me why you seemed so agitated 
when you saw it just now ? You seemed to recognize it. 

Harold. I recognized the picture, Mr. Winn, as the dupli- 
cate of one which I have seen before — but I never saw 
the original of it. 

Martin. And where did you see the picture ? Who had 
it? 

Harold. I found it, sir, among some of the effects of my 
father, after his death. 

Martin. Your father — that picture — but you say your 
name is Vincent ? 

Harold. I was adopted by my uncle when a child, 
and took his name, which is Vincent. My father's 
name 

Martin. Was not Vincent ? 

Harold. No, sir. It was Cranston. 

Martin (quivering with excitement^ which he manages to 
suppress). Yes, yes — Cranston — David Cranston. 

Harold. You — you knew him ? 

Martin. That was his name, then — David Cranston ? 

Harold. AVhy, yes, sir, that was his name. Did you 
know him ? 

Martin. Know him? Know David Cranston? Yes, I 
knew him. And you are his son — the son of that man ? 

Harold. I don't understand, Mr. Winn. Even if you 
knew him, what has that to do with me ? 

Martin. With you ? — when you want to marry my daugh- 
ter? Then you don't know? 

Harold. I saw very little of my father after I was a few 
years old, as my mother died, and I was taken to live 
with her brother's family. As I grew older, and be- 
came able to understand things, I began to find out 
that there was something about my father which they 
were concealing from me. He came to see me once in 
a while, but only for a short time, and never took me 
away with him. When I was about sixteen, they told 
me that he was dead, and — I know no more. If he did 
anything wrong, if he ever injured you in any way, 
surely, you cannot hold me responsible. I am not to 
blame. 

Martin. No, you are not to blame, but — " the sins of the 
fathers." Fate plays us some queer tricks, Mr. Vin- 
cent. I don't want to blight your memory of your 

55 



EOME TIES 

father, but rather than have his son many my daugh- 
ter, innocent as you are, I will tell you what he did — 
the truth. 

Harold. Perhaps the truth would be no worse than the 
suspicions 1 have harbored all these years, Mr. Winn. 
And you have made me suspect more — even worse. 
Isn't it best that I should know — especially if it so 
closely concerns your daughter and me ? 

Martin. You are right. You might as well know, at least 
this much : I went to the city when a young man, with 
a few thousand dollars my parents had left me, to see 
the world — ''real life," as they call it. Part of my 
experience was falling in love with a girl whom I 
thought as good as she was beautiful. We were mar- 
ried, and not long after — well, your father came along ; 
he was handsome, had more money than I — as we had 
spent nearly all of mine — and — he took her away from 
me. They went away together, she died in a year or 
so, and I swore to have revenge. Murder was in my 
heart, but my sister and my child kept me from it. 
Now, do you wonder that I don't want the son of that 
man to marry my daughter ? 

Harold (who is at first duly impressed, after a moment 
treats the matter with comparative lightness, though 
not with unfeeling frivolity). No, Mr. Winn — no, — 
and yet, I am not to blame. That is all in the past. 
I am not responsible for anything my father did. I 
should feel like a cad, a coward, if I were to give Ruth 
up because of what you have told me. 

Martin. And I should consider you a coward if you did 
not give her up, if you have any realization of what it 
would mean to me — and what it would surely mean 
to her if she ever learned the truth. No, young 
man, I tell you it is impossible. You cannot marry my 
daughter. 

Harold. You can't be so hard, so cruel, as to stand in the 
way of her happiness. 

Martin. It is her happiness, her peace of mind, that I am 
looking out for. You must give her up. 

Harold. You ask too much. I cannot do it. What 
would she say — what would she think of me ? 

Martin. Whatever she thought, you would never see her 
again, and you would have the consolation of knowing 

56 



H03IE TIES 

that you had done what was best. (Harold shakes 

his head slowly.) You refuse ? 
Harold. I must. Your daughter loves me, Mr. Winn, 

and 

Martin. Love? Would she love you if she knew all? 

Do you want to force me to tell her ? For that is what 

I shall do, if you persist in your refusal. 
Harold {laughing'). Well, suppose you tell her? That 

might be the best way. I am not afraid. 
Martin. No ! — no, she shall not know that her mother 

was not as good and pure as she thinks her to have 

been, so long as there is any other way. If I forbid her 

to marry you, she will obey me. 
Harold. And you — you mean to do that ? 
Martin. I do. 
Harold. But you must give me a chance. Give me six 

months — (Martin shows no signs of relenting) three — 

and I will abide by the result. I will go away, prom- 
ising not to see her, not even to write to her, and then, 

if at the end of that time she still loves me and wants 

me to come to her, you promise to send for me and to 

let me make her my wife. Isn't that fair? 
Martin {after a pause^ during which he shows painful 

thought and doubt). Yes — it is fair. I — I consent. 

But you must go away, at once, and if you break your 

word in the slightest degree 

Harold. You may trust me. I promise, Mr. Winn, and 

I will keep my word. (^Goes up.) 
Martin. Where are you going ? Not to her ? 
Harold. Yes, of course. She must not suspect — yet. 

Next week I will go away 

Martin. But you must go to-night — now — this minute — 

before she sees you again. 
Harold. What ! — now ? Go now, without seeing her 

again ? Why, what would she think — what would they 

say ? 

Martin. I don't know — it doesn't matter — you must 

go (Ruth's voice heard off l.) Be quick, she 

is coming 

Harold. Oh, well. 

{He reluctantly submits to being urged off q. to R., and exits, 
laughing, just as Ruth enters l. Martin, assuming 

57 



HOME TIES 

an indifferent air^ comes down toe, meeting her. She 
goes part way up, looks off, and catches a glimpse of 
Harold.) 

Ruth. Why, father, how long you have been — you and 

Harold. What does it mean ? What have you been 

saying ? 
Martin. Nothing. You go now, and finish your party. 

They will miss you. 
Ruth {going to him). But, father, there is something the 

matter. What is it? What has happened? Is it 

about me ? Is it 

Martin {tenderly, drawing her to hint). What if I should 

ask my little girl to make a sacrifice — to give up some- 
thing which she thinks she loves very much, and trust 

to my judgment and advice ? Could she do it — for my 

sake? 
Ruth. Father ! You mean Harold ? You don't like him 

— I have seen that from the first — and you — you want 

me to give him up ? 
Martin. I want you to wait — not to trust your heart yet, 

until you are sure, that is all. 
Ruth. But, father, if I love him, and if he loves me, as he 

says he does 

Martin. Let time prove that. I ask you to wait. Can 

you do that — for me ? 
Ruth. I'll — let me speak to him, father. {Looks off c. 

to R.) He's going ! 
Martin. Yes. 
Ruth. Without saying good-bye to me. Oh, father, you 

sent him away ! 
Martin. Yes, Ruth. 
Ruth. Oh, he must come back. {Calls.) Harold ! 

Harold ! 

(Runs toward door, c. Martin steps in front of door.) 

Martin. No, Ruth. 

Ruth {wavering, looking off c. to R., then back to her 

father). But, father, I — I 

Martin. If you choose now, it must be between him and 

— and — me. 
RuTii. Why, I don't know — I can't tell — between him and 

.58 



HOME TIES 

— and (^Hesitates a moment, with a bewildered, 

tearful expression, then suddenly turns to Martin, 
holding out her arms.) Father ! 

(He opens his arms, she falls into them a?id he embraces her 
affectionately, with a look of relief and joy, her head 
on his shoulder.') 



CURTAIN 



59 



ACT IV 

SCENE. — Saf?ie as before y in the evenings the following 
January. Aunt M. is discovered sitting by table, R. , 
sewing; Martin, l.> reading newspaper. A piano or 
organ is heard off R., and a sweet voice, supposed to be 
that of Ruth, is singing a sympathetic song. Martin 
looks upfront paper, smiles, glances R., then lays paper 
on lap and looks toward Aunt M. 

Martin. Singing again. Sounds good, doesn't it ? 

Aunt M. Yes, it does. Quite like old times, before — be- 
fore she went away. 

Martin. She doesn't hear from him very often, does she, 
now? 

Aunt M. No ; I don't believe she has for — why, I guess 
it must be two or three months. She never says much 
about it, but the last letter she got she told me she 
wasn't going to answer it. 

Martin. It doesn't seem to be breaking her heart, after all. 

Aunt M. No. To tell the truth, I don't think she cares 
so very much. I guess she begins to see that he isn't 
all there is, and I wouldn't be surprised if — well, 
haven't you noticed anything ? 

Martin. As if I could help noticing. And now to hear 

her singing again {Rises.) I begin to feel as if 

I had my own little girl back, just as she used to be. 
{Goes up and looks out of window.) It still keeps on 
snowing. It must be getting pretty deep. 

Aunt M. Yes, it must. 

{Enter Lindy, l., enveloped in a large shawl, on which 
there is snozv. She shakes off snow, stamping her feet 
and rubbing her hands.) 

Lindy. M-ra-m, 's awful col'. Ah's mos* friz. 

Aunt M. I don't wonder. Where you been in all this 

snow ? First you know, you'll be sick. 
Lindy. Jes' out sweep'n'. Ah laks it. 'Tain't go'n' make 

dis chile sick. Ah ain't no Mis' PopHn. 
60 



BOME TIES 

Aunt M. She ain't Mis' Poplin now, I guess, since she 

married Josiah Tizzard. 

LiNDY. '* Mr. Tizzard likes the gizzard " 

Aunt M. Lindy Jane ! 

LiNDY. He ! He ! " Wondah 'f he out 'n all de blizzard." 

Martin. I declare, Lindy Jane's getting to be a poet. 

(Laughs.) Give us another verse, Lindy Jane. 

{He has come down.) 

Aunt M. I should think you'd better scold her for making 
fun of folks, instead of encouraging her in it. {To 
Lindy.) You'd better get the broom and dust-pan and 
clean up that snow. 

Lindy. Yass'm. (l.) ''The wind she blew, 'n' the snow 
she snew " 

Aunt M. You hurry. 

Lindy. . Yass'm. "An' Lindy Jane, away she flew " 

{Laughs merrily and runs off l.) 

Aunt M. Isn't she a case ? I d' know what's got into 
her. {The singing off r. has stopped.) There, she's 
stopped singing. I wish Len *d come over. 

Martin. Still think there's hope for Len, do you? 

Aunt M. Yes, I do. At any rate, I hope so. I believe 
'twas him she really loved, all the time. {There is a 
knock on D. F.) There's somebody knocking. See 
who 'tis, Martin. 

(Martin goes and ope?is door. There is a rush of wind 
and a whirl of snow, as Josiah and Mrs. P., very 
much wrapped up and covered with snoWj hurry in. 
She has his arm and appears solicitous of his comfort. 
Aunt M. rises and goes up to them.) 

Mrs. p. Here we be. 

Aunt M. Well, I declare, you must be crazy. {Goes and 
looks out of window.) Why, it's snowing like every- 
thing. 

Mrs. p. Yes, I know 'tis. But Josiah would come. Said 
we must come 'n' tell you about our trip. {She is 
helping him off with tippet, coat, etc.) Dear me, 
Josiah, I hope you ain't caught cold. You know your 
rheumatiz 

Josiah. 'Tain't goin* t' hurt me none ; don't you fret. 

6i 



HOME TIES 

Martin. When did you get back ? 

Mrs. p. Yestiddy. We had a grand time. Was in New 

York three days, 'n' seen all the sights. On the go 

the hull time. 

{Enter Lindy, l., with broom and dust-pan. She looks at 
them^ gigglings as she starts to sweep up snow.) 

JosiAH. How do, Lindy Jane ? 

Lindy. How do, Mistah Poplin ? 

Mrs. p. What's that ? Huh, I guess he ain't changed his 

name, has he ? 
Lindy. T'ought yo' -all's mah'ied. 
Mrs. p. We be. But it's me that ain't Mis' Poplin, you 

little goose. 
Lindy. Oh ! dat's it. He ! he ! 

{She has fiiiished sweeping ; now takes things off \..y gig' 
gling.) 

Mrs. p. She ain't got any too much sense, has she? {She 
places JosiAH in a chair ^ r. q,.^ fussing over him.) The 
idee o' callin' you " Mr. Poplin," Josiah. 

JosiAH. Guess she thought mebbe you's the boss. 

Mrs. p. Now, Josiah ! He don't mean anything. Miss 
Winn. He has his own way in everything. 

{She sits by Josiah, r. c. Martin is r.. Aunt M., l.) 

Martin. He certainly had his own way in winning you, 
Mrs. Poplin — excuse me, I mean Tizzard. 

Josiah. That's once, 'f I never have it ag'in. 

Aunt M. Nothing like perseverance, is there, Josiah ? 

Mrs. p. Perseverance? Makin' a nuisance of y'rself, I 
call it. My land, I had t' marry him t' git red of him. 
He jest pestered me till I took him. 

Josiah. She meant t' take me the hull time. Guess I 
knew. 

Mrs. p. Huh ! You needn't flatter y'rself. Wal, any- 
how, I'm took, so I might's well make the best of it. 

Aunt M. So to speak, after having everything else, you 
thought you'd have a husband ? 

Mrs. p. Yes, and I declare, I don't have time t' think of 
all my other ailments. It's him, now, I'm worryin' 
about. 

62 



HOME TIES 

JosiAH. Yes, she's transferred her "symptoms" t' me. 
xMrs. p. Wal, he ain't very well, Josiah ain't, 'n' I have t' 

take good care of him. I'm so afraid he's caught cold, 

comin' out in all this snow, but he would come. Do 

you think you hev, Josiah ? 
Josiah. No, I ain't. Wish you'd let up on me bein' sick. 
Mrs. p. Land, you needn't snap me up b'fore folks, 'n' 

us jest married. If you're sorry you took me 

{Begins to sfiivel.') 

Josiah. I ain't sorry. Guess it took me long enough git- 
t'n' y*, t* be sorry this quick. 

Mrs. p. (J)oo-hooing). Yes, my money ain't all gone yet. 

Josiah. She's always flinging that out. 

Martin. Money ? Hope you catch it, Josiah. 

Josiah. I s'pose I'll never hear the last of it. 

Mrs. p. But you'll see the last of it, if it keeps goin* at 
the rate it has. {To Martin.) I paid all the 'xpenses 
of our trip, 'n' it cost somethin' awful. 

Aunt M. I suppose you saw everything worth seeing, 
didn't you ? 

Josiah. I reckon we did. We went 

Mrs. p. {instantly brightening up and interrupting hint). 
Yes, we went everywhere 'n' took it all in. I wish you 
could see some of the things we did. Miss Winn. {She 
talks to Aunt M., while Josiah ttirns to Martin, and 
they carry on the conversation i?iter jnitte fitly ^ Josiah 
never being able to complete a sejttence.) They've got 
railroads that run up in the air and under the ground, 
'n' some of the buildin's are s' high 't, I declare, I 
don't believe that Tower of Babel 't tells about in 
Script're would 'a' be'n half way to the top. They put 
y' inside of a little room about the size of one of our 
clothes-presses, 'n' the first y' know they scoot y' up till 
y' think they're never goin' t' stop, 'n' there y' are. I 
declare, I thought sometime 't we was goin' t' pay a 
visit to the man in the moon. 

Josiah {to Martin). Say, ever be'n t' one of them shows 
where all the girls come out 'n' do the skirt dance with- 
out the skirts, and where 

Mrs. p. {to Aunt M.). Yes, what d' you think? — Josiah 
would go to one o' them scand'lous performances. I 
told him if they found it out t' home here, we'd git 

63 



H03IE TIES 

*< churched." But, land, he was like a colt let loose. 
Wa'n't no holdin' him, once he got started. 

JosiAH. When they fust begun t' come out, I thought 
they'd f rgot t' put on their clothes, but b' gosh, the hull 
durn caboodle of 'em was dressed the same way 

Mrs. p. {turning to Josiah, reprovingly). "Undressed," 
I call it. Josiah Tizzard, ain't you got nothin' but 
them brazen things t' talk about? {To Aunt M. 
again.') We went to the Eden Muzee place, where the 
folks 're all made o' wax. Kings 'n' queens 'n' all sort 
o' people standin' around as natural 's life, 'n' nothin' 
but dummies. Y' ought t' seen Josiah. I caught him 
try t' flirt with a wax lady sett'n' on a bench. 

Josiah. You needn't say nothin'. {To Martin.) She 
asked a wax p'liceman 

Mrs. p. I knew he was wax the hull time. I jest done 
that t' give you somethin' t' crow about. ( To Aunt M. 
again.) I never knew Josiah was so green. He tried 
t' put a letter in one o' them fire-alarm boxes. 

Josiah {to Martin). What d' you think Mari' done? 
Thought I looked sick, so she see a sign up "Mani- 
cure," 'n' went in t' git me some medicine. Thought 
it meant a place t' cure sick men 

Mrs. p. Why, the — i-dee ! I didn't, neither. I jest 
thought mebbe they could tell me where t' find a drug 
store. Josiah really ain't well. Mis' Winn. His heart's 

weak, 'n' I think he has sym'toms {Organ or 

piano music heard agaitiy off r.) Why, there's music. 
Is it Ruth playin' ? 

Aunt M. Yes. 

Mrs. p. Wal, I'm glad t' hear it. Looks like she was 
gitt'n' over her disappointment about that Mr. Vincent. 
Terrible the way he shook her, ain't it? But I wa'n't 
s'prised a mite. You can't depend on them city folks. 
I guess Ruth's jest 's well off, though — 'r better. I 
al'ays kind o' wondered, Mr. Winn, 't you let her go 
away t' school, 'n' all like that, after what happened. 
Of course, you never come right out 'n' told what did 
happen, but folks was led to s'spect things. I think 
it's terrible the way folks will talk 'n' try t' fig're out 
other folks' business. For my part, I don't believe in 
meddlin' 'n' pryin' int' things that don't concern me — 
that ain't me — but as for some — wal, they ain't satisfied 

64 



E03IE TIES 

without they know all that's goin' on. {During this 
speecii, Martin Jias risen and gone up R. ; Aunt M. 
exits L., and Josiah falls asleep^ nodding. By the 
time she has concluded^ Martin also exits y R., and 
when she pauses she looks aromid and sees only Josiah. 
She Jumps up, shakes him.) Josiah, — for the land's 
sake, wake up ! Ain't you ashamed o' y'rself, goin' t' 
sleep visitin' at the neighbors? I d* know what Mr. and 
Miss Winn 'II think. They're both gone. 1 wonder 
where they went. {The music off R. has stopped.) I 
don't call it very polite. I guess we'll go. 

{She hustles him about and prepares to get their things.) 

Josiah. I d' want t' go. Jest come. 

Mrs. p. Wal, I guess you will, — treatin' us this way. I 
guess I know when I'm wanted, 'n' when I know I 
ain't, I don't stay long — it ain't me 

(lAaiyv pokes head in l.) 

LiNDY. Miss Winn says come out *n' she'll give you a cup 

o* tea. {Disappears.) 
Mrs. p. Oh, — tea ! Huh, I guess after — wal, I d* know 

but we will, 'cause I really think you need it, Josiah. 

It'll warm you up fr the walk home. 
Josiah. Tea? Wal, I s'pose it's better 'n nothin'. {She 

is attempting to aid him^ as they go L., but he shakes 

her off impatiently.) Let me alone, Mari' ; I ain't 

sick. 

{Enter Ruth, r. ) 

Ruth. Good-evening, Mr. and Mrs. Tizzard. Let me 
congratulate the bride and groom. 

{She goes and shakes hands with them.) 

Josiah. Thanks. Same to you. 

Mrs. p. Josiah, — she ain't married. 

Josiah. I mean, ''many of 'em." 

Mrs. p. Wal, if you ain't 

Ruth. Never mind, Mrs. Poplin, I know what he means. 

Mrs. p. " Poplin " ? Land, I guess you're mixed, too. 

Josiah. ''Poplin!" No,— "Tizzard." 

{Exity L.) 

65 



HOME TIES 

Ruth. Why,-— of course. Forgive me. Just home from 
your tour, I hear. 

Mrs. p. Yes. Was t' New York. Ain't that a grand 
place? You was there, *n' of course you know. 
Thought one spell you'd go there t* live, didn't 
y' ? But I hear that's all off. Don't you ever hear 
from that Mr. Vincent any more ? 

Ruth. Why — yes, I have had several letters from him. 

Mrs. p. Very lately ? 

Ruth. N-not just — no, not very lately. (She is embar- 
rassed; tries to change the subject, goi?ig l.) Where 
is Aunt Melissa ? I thought she was here. 

Mrs. p. {she has been l. ; now gets between Ruth and 
the door, so that Ruth is compelled to remain^. No, 
she went out in the kitchen. Lindy Jane says she's 
makin' us some tea. Seems t' me you ain't lookin* 
quite s' well — kind o' pindlin'. Wal, it ain't t' be 
wondered at. I s'pose you been worryin' about him, 
but I wouldn't. He ain't worth it, if he's shook you 
the way I hear he has 

Ruth. Mrs. Tizzard — I — please don't 



Mrs. p. Oh ! hurts, does it ? Excuse me. I didn't mean 
anything. I wouldn't hurt y'r feelin's for the world, 'r 
have you think I was tryin' t' find out things. No, in- 
deed, — that ain't me. But sometimes the truth hurts, 
and the medicine that's best for us ain't al'ays the 
pleasantest t* take. (Enter Martin, r.) Now, if I 
was you, I wouldn't give him another thought. The 
truth is — 'r seems t' be — *t he's got tired o' y*, and 
shook y* for another, so 

Martin {coming forward ; Mrs. P., seeing him, pauses, 
a bit taken aback). Ruth, dear. 

Mrs. p. Oh, it's you, Mr. Winn? I was jest tellin' Ruth 
it seems t' me she ain't lookin* very well. I shouldn't 
be s' prised if she needs some medicine. If y' do, Ruth, 
I've got a circular about a new kind, 'n' judgin' from 
y'r looks 'n* all, it seems t' describe your sym't'ms. 
It's called — there, I f'rgit the name, but I kept the cir- 
cular. 

Ruth. Thank you, Mrs. Tizzard, but I am quite well. I 
don't need any medicine. 

Mrs. p. Glad if y' don't, but y' look's if y' did. Wal, I 
must go out in the kitchen. Miss Winn's makin' some 
66 



HOME TIES 

tea. I hope y' don't think I was interferin', 'cause that 
ain't me. 

{Exit, L.) 

Martin. You mustn't mind what she says, Ruthiedear; 
she's simply a gossip, with nothing to do but talk. 

Ruth. I know, father ; but still it — hurts — to know that 
people are talking about me, and saying that I have 
been "thrown over." 

Martin. Is that what hurts the worst, Ruth, — what people 
say? 

Ruth. Y-yes, I think it is. Somehow, I — I don't quite 
understand it — but I don't seem to care so much as I 
did — as much as it seems I ought to — about — about — 
him. 

Martin. I'm glad of that, dear. It is all for the best. 
He is not our kind — or we are not his — and it is all for 
the best. You have suffered, and it may not all be over 
yet, but I thank heaven you have been spared something 
that might be a thousand times worse. 

Ruth. Perhaps, — I don't know 

Martin. How thankful I am that you are still with us, in 
the shelter of home, with the home ties still unbroken, 
and that you are still my own dear little girl, with a sad 
heart, perhaps, but with those who really love you and 
will do all in their power to make you happy again. 

{Takes her in his arms, kissing her.) 

Ruth. But I am not so unhappy, father. No, sad as I 
feel, and hard as it has been to think that one I loved 
is not all I thought him to be — I — somehow, I don't 
seem to care — not so much as I thought I should. It 
is all like a dream, and I still have you, — you, and 
others whose love will never fail me. 

Martin. What — what about Len Everett, Ruth ? Is there 
hope for him ? 

Ruth. Len — Len Everett? Why, he doesn't care any- 
thing about me, now. How could he, after I — after 
all that has happened ? He went away, and 

Martin. Yes, I know. But he has come back, Ruth. 
He came last night, and I have seen him. He does 
care for you, Ruth. 

Ruth. He — he told you so? 

Martin. Yes, Ruth, he told me, and {There is a 

67 



HOME TIES 

knock on D. F.) Oh, — there's somebody knocking. 

I'll see who it is. (Gods up.) Perhaps it's Len, now. 

Ruth. Then I will go and — and have a cup of tea. I 

{Exit, L.) 
(Martin opens door, admitting Len.) 

Martin. Well, well, — speaking of angels ! How are you, 
Len ? Come in. 

Len. {enteringy brushing off snow). Thanks, Mr. Winn. 
Quite a snow-storm, isn't it ? 

Martin. Seems to be. {Opens the door a crack and 
glances out.) Well, I should say it was. Doesn't seem 
to hinder folks coming out, though. Mr. and Mrs. 
Tizzard are here, too. Here, let me have your coat. 

Len. No, thanks, I'll lay it over here. It's kind of wet. 
{Lays coat and hat on chair , up r.) So the bride and 
groom are here, eh ? I heard they were back from their 
"tower," as Josiah calls it. What's the latest symp- 
toms with the Mrs. ? 

Martin. " Husbanitis," I guess. She's transferred her 
ailments to him ; spends most of her time trying to 
make him think he's sick. {They have come down.) 
Sit down, Len. We'll go out in the kitchen in a min- 
ute. The folks are out there. (Len. sits r., Martin, c.) 
It's good for sore eyes to see you. You've been terri- 
bly distant of late. 

Len. Have I? I didn't mean to be. Only, — well, Mr. 
Winn, I guess you know how I felt. Sort of a delicate 
matter with me. But I was over last night, as you 
know. And now I'm here again. 

Martin. That's often, that is, after being gone two months. 
Didn't you like the West? 

Len. Can't say that I did. It's all right, but— well, I 
might as well be fair and square about it — I was home- 
sick. Simply had to come back. You see, I'd never 
been away before for any length of time, nor so far, and 
— well, 1 always was a kind of a home boy, and when 
yon wrote that you hadn't sold my new house yet 

Martin. Didn't try to sell it. 

Len. You didn't? I asked you to. 

Martin. I know you did, but you didn't mean it. Been 
sorry if I had. 

68 



HOME TIES 

Len. I don't understand. I have no use for it. 

Martin. Pshaw ! How do you know you haven't? 

Len. {rising). Why, Mr. Winn, what do you mean ? 

Martin. Oh, nothing, only that it would be a shame to 
sell a nice new house like that for what you can get for 
it now. Be worth more in a few years. (Rises, go- 
ing L.) Coming to have a cup of tea ? It seems they're 
having a sort of tea party out in the other room. 

Len. Thanks, I'm not very strong for tea, but I wouldn't 
mind going in and saying how-d'-do to the folks. By 
the way, I stopped in the post-office, and thought I 
might as well bring your mail along. 

(Goes up R., gets overcoat, takes a fiewspaper arid a good- 
sized letter, stamped and addressed, from pocket.) 

Martin. Glad you did. {Takes paper and letter.) Much 
obliged. Oh, this letter's for Ruth. Guess I'll let you 
give it to her, yourself. I'll send her in. 

{Hands the letter back to Len. and goes l.) 

Len. {who has taken the letter mechanically). No — you 
take it. Here. 

(Martin smiles, refuses to take letter, and exits L. Len. 
stands a moment, looking after hifn, then at letter. 
There is a slight pause, then Ruth enters l. She 
seems somewhat ejfibarrassed whefi she sees him, but 
shows pleasure.) 

Ruth. Why, Len, how do you do? I am very glad to 

see you. {They shake hands.) 
Len. Thank you, Ruth. I am well, and — glad to see you, 

too. It's quite a while, isn't it ? 
Ruth. Yes. I heard you were over last night. But I 

guess you didn't want to see me — very much. 
Len. Oh, — I guess you know better than that. There 

never was the time I didn't want to see you — and 

never will be. 
Ruth {blushingly). Thank you, Len. It's kind of you to 

say it, and I — I can say the same of you. 
Len. {advancing a step toward her). Can you, Ruth? 
Ruth. Why, yes, of course. {Starts l.) I'll get you a 

cup of tea. 

69 



HOME TIES 

Len. No, don't — please. I don't want any tea. I — oh, I 
almost forgot. I have a letter for you. 

{Hands her the letter.') 

Ruth. Thank you. {Glances at it, starting slightly.') 
It's — it's from New York. (He turfis away. She 
looks at him almost pleadingly, as if about to speak, 
falters, then fitially goes over to him, putting her hand 
on his arm.) But it's not from — him — Len. He — he 
doesn't write to me any more. {Glances up at him, 
shyly.) And I don't care, Len, — I — I don't want — 
him — to. 

Len. Ruth — you — you mean ? 

{He advances a step toward her, with a look of joyful sur- 
prise and expectancy ; she offers no resistatice, and he 
seems about to take her in his arms when Lindy sud- 
denly thrusts her head in L,, and at the sou fid of her 
voice they turn from each other slightly, assuming a 
more matter -of fact air.) 

Lindy. Want some te-e-ea ? {Disappears.) 

Ruth. Why — yes, of course — tea; — I forgot. Will you 

have some, Len ? 
Len. No. We weren't speaking of tea, Ruth. You were 

saying — it was about the letter — and 

{Enter Mrs. P., l., quickly, again interrupting them.) 

Mrs. p. Wal, I declare, here's Len Everett — with Ruth. 
{Looks off L., and calls.) Here's Len Everett. 

{Enter Aunt M., l.) 

Aunt M. Why, Len, how d' do? I'm glad to see you. 
Thought you was never coming over. 

{Goes and shakes ha?tds with him.) 

Len. Thanks, Miss Winn. I'm glad to see you, too, and 

to be home again. I have found out that there's no 

place like home. 
Mrs. p. Ain't you goin' t' shake hands with me, too, 

Len ? {Goes up to him.) 
Len. {taking her hand). Why, of course I am, Mrs. — er 

— Tizzard. 

70 



H03IE TIES 

Mrs. p. Yes, that's it. 

Len. And my sincere congratulations. Where's the happy 
bridegroom ? 

(^Enter Josiah, l., followed by Martin.) 

Mrs. p. Here he is. Here's Len Everett, Josiah. 

Josiah. How d' do, Len ? 

Len. {as they shake hafids). Well, thank you, Josiah, and 

hope I see you the same. 
Josiah. Yes, thank y* 



Mrs. p. He ain't, s* very. If he didn't keep doct'rin' 

Josiah. Huh ! ain't nothin' ails me but too much coddlin', 

'n' too many pesky ^'sym't'ms." 
Mrs. p. {sniveling). Yes, that's all the thanks I git f'r 

takin' sech good care of him, 'n* payin' all the doctor's 

bills. 
Josiah. Y' needn't bring that up. 
Mrs. p. Wal, it's true. Boo-hoo ! 

{She goes up r., followed by Ruth, who pretends to com- 
fort her. Martin stands L., looking on, amused; 
Len. ^«^ Josiah are c. Aunt M., r. c.) 

Len. So you're married, Josiah ? Congratulations. 
Josiah. Thanks. Same t' you, 'n' many of 'em. 
Aunt M. Land, he isn't married — yet. 
Josiah. <' Yet "—he ! he ! Thinkin' of it ? Eh, Len ? 
Len. M'm — well, I don't know, Josiah. There's always 

hope, you know. 
Josiah. Sure. That's how I looked at it, 'n' finally I got 

her. 
Martin. You're a first-rate example in perseverance, 

Josiah. I guess Mrs. Poplin can testify to that. 
Mrs. p. ''Poplin" agin. 
Martin. Oh, excuse me — Tizzard. 

{Enter Lindy, l.) 

Aunt M. Lindy, is the fire burning in the other room ? 

Lindy. Reckon 'tis, 'm. Ah'Ugo 'n' see. {Crosses to r.) 

Aunt M. You build it up good, 'cause we're all coming 

in there. {To the others.) Thought maybe we'd 

have a little music. I'll play on the organ, and we'll 

all sing. 

71 



HOME TIES 
Martin (^crossing to r.). Good. Supposing we do. 

(^Exit LiNDY, R.) 

Aunt M. (r.). Come on, then. I guess it's warm in 
there. 

(They all go r., except Len., who remains c, and Ruth, 
who is up ^.') 

JosiAH. Comin', Mari' ? 

Mrs. p. {joinifig hint). Yes ; but I hope it ain't chilly in 

there, Josiah. You know, your rheumatiz 

JosiAH. I guess we'll resk it. Come along. 

(^He ushers her off r. She looks back, sentimentally, first 
at Len., then at Ruth, smiling knowingly. They are 
followed by Aunt M. and Martin, who nods at 
Len. encouragingly. Ruth stands up r., looking out 
of window, 7iot noticing the others. There is a pause, 
during which Len. looks at Ruth, starts up, as if 
about to speak, hesitates, then finally starts, goes 
toward her. Just as he is about to speak, Lindy puts 
head in r.) 

Lindy. Come on 'n' sing. {Disappears.^ 

{The organ off R. begins softly to play ^^ Home, Sweet 
Home.'^ Ruth, who previously had laid the letter on 
table, has taken it up and now mechanically tears open 
the envelope. She is r., by table; Len. c. He watches 
her, as she takes from the envelope another, which is 
not sealed, glancitig at it with a show of surprise. 
She opens the other envelope, taking out an invitation ; 
looks at it, in a half dazed manner, as its sigfiificance 
slowly dawns upon her, leaning against table.) 

Len. Ruth — what 



{She holds out the paper to him, with her head partly turned 
the other way. He takes it, reading, with some be- 
wilderment.) 

Ruth. Read it — aloud. 

Len. {reading). " Mr. and Mrs. Edward Beecher Wayne 
announce the marriage of their daughter, Alma Louise, 

to — Harold — Cranston — Vincent " {He pauses, 

72 



HOME TIES 

looking at Ruth, who staiids imth averted face.') 
Ruth ! {She does ?iot reply, a?id there is a mojiienf s 
silence^ except for the nmsic off r., voices now beittg 
heard softly singing * ' Home, Sweet Home. ' ' Len. goes 
up by windoiv, looking out. After a pause, he turns, 
looks at Ruth, 7vho has her back to hif?i, then speaks.) 
Ruth, — Ruth — do you care — so — so very much ? 

Ruth {looking at him). No, Len. I — I don't think I ever 
did — really. 

Len. {pausing, with a look half fear, half hope ; then tak- 
ing a step toward her, holdifig out his hand). Ruth — 
see ! {Glafices out of window.) 

Ruth {goitig up, letting him take her hand. He leads her 
to window). Yes, Len. 

Len. Look — over there. It has stopped snowing, and I 
can see it in the moonlight. 

Ruth. What, Len ? — see what ? 

Len. My house. Shall it be — can it be — our 



{He hesitates, looking at her with great tenderness.) 

Ruth {going close to him). Yes, Len, our — '* Home, 
Sweet Home." 

{His arm steals about her, and he draws her to him, kiss- 
ins^ her, and they stand looking out of windo7v. The 
singing continues tmtil after the curtain falls.) 



CURTAIN 



73 




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